Had I Known
by kayly silverstorm
Summary: After killing Voldemort during seventh year, Harry vanished without a trace. But now, 8 years later, a deadly secret forces him to return and it seems that only Snape will be able to save him. SSHP, no slash
1. Stranger in the Shadows

**Preliminaries**

Hi everybody!

I´m glad you clicked on this story and hope you will enjoy it. There are a few formalities to get done with before the fun can start.

1. „Had I known" is SS-HP, but no slash, just a slowly developing friendship. It takes place eight years after Harry should have graduated, that means eight years after he killed Voldemort and vanished.

2. I started to plan this long beore HBP came out, which will thus be mainly ignored. This, and the fact that I slightly changed events of the first 5 books, makes this story AU, so don´t wonder.

3. I will write this only once, but it counts for the whole story: Nothing in the Harry Potter universum belongs to me. I intend no profit with this story and have no copyright whatsoever on this.

4.To the reader of my other story, „When A Lioness Fights": Don´t worry, I won´t abandon that story or let it suffer. Updates to „Had I known" will be as regular as possible, but the „Lioness" comes first.

5. I love reviews! And I love everybody who reviews! I will try to respond to every question, criticism or comment you give, but please review. Just the fact that you´re out there and reading this gives me the discipline to go on...

That said, let´s get on to the story...

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**Stranger in the Shadows**

The Headmaster called them together after dinner.

Snape had followed the request only grudgingly – he hated to leave a potion on its own in the middle of the brewing process, and his research had entered a critical phase, but something in the Headmaster´s letter made him comply.

There was an urgency to it, a strange nervousness he hadn´t encountered in Albus for a long time.

He arrived barely on time, only to be confronted by curious, upturned faces the moment he opened the door to Albus´ office. He gave a general, curt nod in the direction of his colleagues and sat down in the armchair he had marked as his own during hundreds of staff meetings.

Strange. Albus´ note hadn´t stated the reason for this assembly, and from the questioning glances that darted from face to face, he assumed that no one seemed to know the reason for this impromptu meeting.

But it wasn´t lost on them that only the senior staff members seemed to be present, with one, significant, exception.

Nymphadora Tonks, made Professor for DADA only a year before, sat silently with them in the crammed office of Albus Dumbledore. He met her eyes and she shrugged her shoulders to indicate her own confusion.

Why Tonks, Snape wondered and felt the throbbing pain of a headache blooming from his temples. Why not Vectra or Jordan, who had taken over History of Magic three years ago?

He let his eyes travel over the persons present, and suddenly it hit him.

All the teachers assembled here, from the now silver haired McGonagall, the wrinkled Sprout to the pink haired Tonks – all the teachers had been members of the Order during the war.

He could seee Minerva´s thin lips suddenly twitching and thinning even more. So she had realized it, too, and the realization worried her.

He had to suppress a frustrated groan as the headache went from slumbering to full bloom in a heartbeat.

The Order hadn't come together for almost four years. When they had together decided that there was no work left for them, he had hoped, with all his heart, that they would never have to re-establish it again. What had led Albus to assemble them now?

And where the hell was the Headmaster?

The room´s tension had risen to a peak, they were eyeing each other warily, but no one dared ask.

_Because we don´t want to know_, Snape thought grimly, _The war has become a memory, and we don´t want to remember_.

Once you had reached the tunnel´s end, you didn´t turn around to watch the shadows. The sun felt too good after the long time of darkness.

As the memories returned to them, the atmosphere in the room changed again and Snape could see the sorrow on his colleague's faces.

They had lost so many, before and after the fall of the Dark Lord. Most of the then seventh and sixth years were gone, the victims of uncountable attacks and their own, foolish bravery.

Remus Lupin, Mundungus Fletcher, Kingley Shacklebolt and Filius Flitwick. Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.

And where the Wonder Boy himself, the centre of all their attention and hope had vanished, no one had ever found out.

Granted, he had slaughtered the Dark Lord before his disappearance, but still – to vanish into thin air, leaving only a note and a couple of corpses behind, was just unbearably Gryffindor.

Though the fuss everybody had made about his disappearance had been even worse.

Snape had just snorted at the teary speeches and sentimental articles, and a few especially well phrased comments had nearly led to a serious fight with Molly Weasley, who, as she used to say, had not only lost one, but three children when the corpses of Weasley, Granger, and Potter´s letter had been found.

As if she hadn´t enough children!

Snape snorted again and earned a warning glance from Minerva, who seemed to know exactly along which trail his thoughts where wandering.

But where was the Headmaster? Snape´s eyes found the clock. Fifteen minutes already. He never let anybody wait that long. Albus practically lived in his office!

As if he had heard that thought, one of the doors to his left opened and Albus Dumbledore appeared.

It took a long time till he reached his desk, enough time for Snape to let the shock sink in. The Headmaster looked changed. Old, fragile, and – which probably was responsible for the cold, sinking feeling in Snape´s stomach – afraid.

Albus had never looked afraid, not in the thirty-five years Snape had known him. He had confronted dangers untold and not even shunned away from Grindelwald or Voldemort.

If he feared something, it had to be bad indeed.

Slowly, displaying every single one of his many years, Albus sank into his armchair and conjured them tea and biscuits. He was the only one to take a cup, but his hands shook so violently that he nearly spilled the hot liquid.

"Albus, why have you summoned us?", Minerva finally broke the silence, her voice showing nothing of the apprehension her eyes betrayed, "Has there been… another incident?"

They all knew what she meant by incidents, the late night Order meetings, hastily assembled in response to yet another attack, yet another death.

After the Dark Lord´s sudden and unexpected demise, his followers had gone mad. Knowing that all was lost to them, that no claim of blackmail or Imperius could rescue them this time, they had covered the whole of Great Britain in terror.

It had been a gruesome work, to catch and arrest them one by one. All too well he recalled the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth, the despair when they had realized that all was not over, all was not well. That the fight, though more equally balanced now than long before, hadn´t ended yet.

But without their dark, evil head, the Death Eaters had become vulnerable, and, after four years of skirmishes and restless hunting, Order and Aurors together had finally triumphed.

"An incident", Albus´ voice raised Snape from his thoughts, "Yes, I think you could call it that."

Snape groaned at this display of the sphinxism the old man so loved, but this time, no mischievous glint was lightening the Headmaster´s eyes, and his voice sounded tired and frail.

"I received a letter", he continued, retrieving a parchment from his pocket and unfolding it slowly, "A letter I had never believed to come, though I have hoped for it so many years."

He now raised his eyes to the assembled group and examined every face slowly, as if imprinting on them the importance of this moment and its revelations. There had been a time when every gesture, every word of Albus Dumbledore had seemed deliberate, the whole man nothing but an orchestrated enigma to give them hope. But now his voice was unsteady, and his gaze seemed to search for strength, not give it to them.

"I must admit that I was very… flustered by the arrival of this letter. I know not what to say…"

The Headmaster faltered, his eyes darting to the parchment that he clenched tightly in his hands.

"A letter from whom?" Minerva asked impatiently. "What is all this about, Albus?"

The Headmaster sighed, desperation darkening his eyes. "Minerva," he whispered helplessly. "I…"

"Read it out to us, then", a voice from Snape´s left interrupted. Tonks. Insensitive, practical Tonks.

Again, Albus kept his long, indecisive silence, until Snape´s urge to simply snatch the letter from his hands became overwhelming. An intense curiosity had replace the former worry among their group.

Nobody had ever seen the Heamaster in such a state since Potter´s disappearance, and they were all dying to know now what had caused it.

"Perhaps that would be best", Albus finally whispered, cleared his throat and raised the parchment.

"Dear Sir," he began "I assume that this letter will be unexpected to you, as I had never expected to write it, either. In my last letter I told you that you would never hear form me again, and I intended to keep this promise."

Longing and melancholy clouded the Headmaster´s voice. He read slowly, pausing between the sentences as if it was an enormous task he was undertaking. Nobody found the heart to urge him on.

"However, recent developments have caused me to change my mind. I am not well, Headmaster, and would like to see you before it is too late. I could understand if you never wished to meet me again. Be assured that I would harbour no ill feelings against you in such a case. But if you have it in you to grant my wish, I will be at your office at about 8.30 this evening. Feel free to notify me if this meeting should be against your wishes. I remain sincerely, your…"

A discrete knock on the door to his office silenced the Headmaster.

Severus could have strangled the one outside for hits untimely interruption, but the sight of his old teacher turning as pale as chalk silenced him.

"He has come," Albus whispered, gripping the edges of his desk so hard that his knuckles turned white.

Snape wanted to demand an explanation – who was coming? - but the mad chaos of panic and hope that twisted the Headmaster´s face silenced him. Albus was in no state to answer any question.

Then, the Headmaster raised himself to sit straighter, assuming the calm, controlled appearance they had all come to expect from him.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Please enter," he called.

The door swung open, but the figure entering remained in the shadows that had built while the meeting progressed. Nobody had bothered to light a lamp, and, somehow, nobody dared to do it now.

There was such calm confidence in the shadowy form of a man, such power that Snape couldn´t suppress a shiver racing along his spine. Mighty as Dumbledore was, even he had never managed to dominate a room so completely with his mere presence. Only the Dark Lord had commanded such power. But whoever this "he" was, he didn´t possess the threatening aura of the late Voldemort

And when he spoke, it wasn´t in the high, eery whisper of the Dark Lord, but with a voice much younger, deep, and slightly hoarse.

"Good evening, Headmaster," the stranger said "I see you assembled us an audience."

Albus´ mouth opened once, twice, and closed again. Dumbledore, strongest wizard of his age and one of the most unnervingly eloquent people Snape knew, was speechless.

"Won´t you sit down, dear boy?" he finally croaked, and to his amazement, Snape could see a single tear slip down his wrinkly cheek and vanish among the silver hairs.

The man in the shadows sighed and lowered his head.

"I might as well," he said quietly, and the shadows seemed to swirl around him before they disappeared and warm, golden light suddenly glowed from the awakened lamps.

The stranger hadn´t moved a muscle, but now he lifted his head and they could clearly see his face for the first time. Snape could see long black hair, tied together in his neck and eyes the colour of emeralds. But before he had fully taken in the stranger´s appearance, his eyes fell on the man´s forehead and he felt himself stiffen in shock.

Against pale, smooth skin, there shone the dark outline of a scar, shaped in the form of a lightning bolt.

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There it is! I hope you liked the start! If you did (or if you didn´t), please click the little button down the left and let me know.

I apologize for any mistakes I might have made - I´m not a native speaker - but tell me about them, for I love to learn ;-)

Next chapter has some real interaction, shocking revelations, a very pissed of Snape and a convulsing Harry in it


	2. The Poisoned Return

Formularbeginn

The Poisoned Return

Time seemed to slow down to a desperate, aching crawl, and the teachers found themselves unable to move.

The very air froze around them as Harry Potter, long lost hero and creature of myth and legend, turned his green eyes on them.

They found themselves stunned by the intensity of his gaze, which held no emotion, no recognition, and no warmth. Still, it seemed to pierce their very souls with the ease of a lightning blade, gliding over them and unmasking their every hidden thought.

Then, a gasp tore through the thin fabric of silence that had kept them in place and suddenly, bedlam broke loose.

The teachers were on their feet in an instant, talking and demanding answers, wanting to rush forward to welcome their Golden Body and not daring to at the same time.

Tonks knocked over her chair, crying something in that unintelligible slang of hers, Sprout had burst into tears at Potter´s sight, and Minerva was slowly circling him like a nervous cat, as if she couldn´t believe her senses.

Only three figures remained motionless.

Dumbledore was still sitting behind his desk, his eyes fixed on Harry, clearly waiting for him to take the offered seat.

Snape had leaned back in his chair as if he had received a vicious punch. His face was the stony mask he usually wore, but thoughts whirled and danced behind the calmness of his face.

_He´s back_, the thought echoed in his mind, _Harry Potter is back_. And then: _Hell and damnation, and I´d actually started to enjoy the peace!_

And Harry Potter, calm like the eye of a hurricane, slowly fixed his piercing eyes on each of them, before he walked over to a hard backed chair placed nearly opposite of Snape´s, and sat down.

Slowly, the room´s inhabitants settled down again to a weak semblance of their usual dignity (Tonks excepted, who had never even attempted dignity in her life).

Face turned towards Albus, Potter waited in silence, but it took the Headmaster another minute to regain his composure sufficiently to speak.

"Harry… I… I thought they´d want to see you, too. And so I took the liberty to…"

"Of course." Was there a trace of bitterness in Potter´s voice? "It is your office, after all. I am glad to find you all well. I assume things have been peaceful lately?"

"Remarkably." The Headmaster answered cautiously. "At least, as far as we know."

They all could here the unvoiced question behind his words: Is that the reason why you´re hest? Has danger arisen again?

But Potter, if he had noticed the Headmaster´s implicit demand, ignored it completely.

"Hogwarts looks well. I see you restored the outer walls."

"Three years ago. We used the opportunity to strengthen the wards, as you may have noticed."

The young man nodded, seemingly unaware of the group´s rising unease and irritation, and seemed to sink back into himself. So small talk was over. And the lost hero made no move to open the conversation they were all itching to have.

It fell to the Headmaster to make the first move, though he took his time, too, merely watching the young man near the window with a strange glow in his eyes. _As if he has found a long lost treasure and isn´t willing to lose it again_.

"My dear boy," he finally said, his voice filled to the brim with emotions. "It is wonderful to have you back."

Potter simply nodded.

"We searched for you of course, after you vanished," the Headmaster plunged on when it became clear that Harry would not break his silence. "But we couldn´t find you."

"I know. I didn´t want you to."

The answer was mild, calm, and offering not a hint of an explanation.

Inside, Snape groaned. _Wonder boy´s gotten as sphinxish as the old man. I really didn´t need that._

Embarrassed silence. What did you say to someone who hadn´t wanted you to find him? To someone who had left without a look backwards years ago, never to return again? And with whom you suddenly found yourself face to face, without a clue what was going on?

"Then why did you come back, Mr. Potter?" Minerva found the courage to ask. "I mean, not that we aren´t happy to see you, but it…"

At the sound of his old teacher´s crisp voice, a tiny smile appeared on Potter´s face, and he turned around to meet her eyes.

"I am ill." he simply explained.

"And so you chose us to hold your hand in times of need. How very touching, Potter", Snape couldn´t keep himself from sneering.

This whole display was so very melodramatic and sentimental. Or, in other words, simply disgusting.

He heard Minerva tsk in disapproval, but Potter had turned his head towards him and Snape found himself once more under the floodlights of those green eyes, unable to move or to even sneer. Gods, how had the stubborn, pathetic boy of once become so very powerful?

"Ah, Professor Snape," he said mildly, and again, a tiny smile grazed his lip. "How I have missed your subtle humour over the years."

Snape snorted, trying to sound unimpressed, but quite incapable of uttering one of his usual caustic remarks.

Those eyes had unsettled him. They held a knowledge, a tale of deep pain and its acceptance, that Snape hadn´t encountered in someone so young before. What had happened to the boy, for Goodness sake?

_Get yourself together!_ He snarled to himself, _He´s Potter! He got himself into enough tight spots he couldn´t handle over the years. Nothing impressive about surviving a mess you created yourself._

"So you came to us to be healed, Harry?" The Headmaster tentatively took up Potter´s explanation.

"No. Quite the opposite", the young man now returned his attention to Albus and Snape found that he could breathe again.

"I have already undergone extensive magical and nonmagical examination. The result is definite. I will die. So I came to say goodbye to Hogwarts."

And again, barely fifteen minutes after freezing them in their seats, Harry Potter had managed to shock a room of weathered teachers and war heroes into speechlessness.

It was as if Potter had dealt a blow, a blow no one had seen coming. They had steeled themselves against revelations, reproaches and something the Headmaster probably would have labelled a "long, tiring voyage towards reunion" in his insufferable romanticism, but not against this. Not against the end.

They had never believed the Boy Who Lived could be mortal like everybody else.

"What do you mean, die?" Tonks finally blurted out. "You can´t be dying! You´re barely twenty five!"

"So you kept up with my birthdays?" Potter asked as if the real topic of this conversation was of no interest at all to him.

The amusement in his voice had increased, and Snape couldn´t help feeling respect for the elegant efficiency with which Potter drove them all over the edge.

"It´s a public holiday, Potter," he drawled back. "Not easy to miss the Chosen One´s birthday."

To this Potter actually grinned, a dry malicious smirk, showing his old Potions Master exactly how twisted all this was.

"I should have known that. And it was probably Fudge who brought it up, in "commemoration of my deeds"?"

"Harry, I…" Albus' voice held all the urgency of this world. "Are you… serious?"

Suddenly, all trace of humour vanished from Potter´s face.

"Of course I am," he answered. "I´d never have returned here for any lesser reason."

_Ouch. Now that was below the belt_, Snape thought when he saw the Headmaster flinch violently. _Ungrateful brat_.

Potter had obviously misunderstood the older man´s reaction, for he smiled again.

"Don´t worry," he said. "There will be no dramatic final speeches or messages to the wizarding world. All I wanted was to walk these corridors once more, to see the forbidden forest, the giant squid and the astronomy tower. Though you already… spiced up my arrival more than I had expected."

His eyes darted over to the teachers, who suddenly felt like intruders on this intimate moment. Then he sighed, and suddenly seemed younger and older at the same time, innocent and wise together.

"I forgive you, Headmaster," he whispered, and something in his voice told them that he wasn´t talking about the night´s assembly.

_How presumptuous, _Snape wanted to sneer, _As if anyone cares for your forgiveness, Potter_.

But then he saw the Headmaster´s face, suddenly freed from the rigor mortis of that unknown fear it had carried before. Snape saw tight muscles relax and felt a deep breath of relief wash over the room. In front of his eyes, the old and frail man vanished, to be replaced by the powerful wizard Snape had come to know over the years.

"Thank you, my boy," he whispered back, a ghost of his old twinkle reappearing in the blue eyes.

Potter just studied him critically, and his slightly widened eyes told Snape that he hadn´t missed the change, either.

"I didn´t know it meant so much to you," he said. "I´m glad I came, then."

"I am glad, too, Harry."

And again, silence. Snape wondered whether he should remark about the rather boring lack of communication, but before he could open his mouth, Potter resumed speaking.

"Right then.", he said. "If there´s nothing more to discuss, I will – with your permission, Headmaster – walk the castle for a while and then return to my home." He stood, his gaze once again washing over them, and smiled quietly.

"I am leaving now. Goodbye."

"Harry… no… you can´t just…"

Not bothering to turn back, Potter simply answered: "Yes, Headmaster. I can."

He reached the door, turned the handle – and nothing happened. Albus had locked the door.

_Good gods, why can´t we just let him go and good riddance?_, Snape thought. But he knew the Headmaster too well to have hoped for that. Potter would be rescued, even if he was killed in the process. There was nothing as merciless as the old man´s care for his loved ones.

"I´m sorry, dear boy," the old voice now confirmed his suspicion. "But we can´t let you just leave like that. Not when you´re seriously ill."

"I do know that you only have my best in mind, Headmaster. But once, only once in my mind, I have made a decision on my own, unguided and unmanipulated. Don´t try to take that away from me."

"Let us visit Madame Pomfrey together, Harry. She is an experienced mediwitch. Or St. Mungo´s. They will know of a treatment..."

"I have been to St. Mungo´s. They couldn´t tell me what was wrong, only that it is fatal. I had to obliviate them to get away." There was no misunderstanding the roughening of the voice, nor the glowing in the green eyes that had turned back towards them. Potter was getting angry. And something told Snape that it would be wise to leave as quickly and silently as possible.

Unfortunately, the door was locked.

"Let. Me. Go." It was a command now, and Snape could feel the temperature in the office suddenly drop. Reality seemed to cower down into itself, to await whatever catastrophe would happen now, and Snape found that he wished to cower alongside with it.

"No." Albus still seemed calm, as if he hadn´t noticed the sudden changes around him and the horrified expressions of his staff. "Sit down and we will discuss this. I won´t allow you to harm yourself. And don´t try to leave. This office answers to me alone, and Hogwarts´ magic is stronger than any wizard´s."

Raw magic whipped around them, furious and cold. Every cell in Snape´s body fought to take cover, and only his stupid little pride fixed him in place.

Potter had changed. He was nothing like the boy they had known now. Again, the shadows whirled around him and he exuded magic, he breathed power. Albus, Snape realized in this moment while he watched the green eyes blaze with inner fire, had no idea what he was up to.

For one instant, it seemed as if he would attack the Headmaster. Then, Potter whipped around, raised his right palm towards the door and spoke one single, short word.

"Open."

The castle swayed. A pained groan tore from the deepest foundations as Hogwarts fought against the strange magic that tried to impress its will on the ancient structure. The floor shuddered, every window in the room shattered, and then the office door was wrenched from its hinges and crumbled to dust.

_Now that was impressive_.

Slowly, Snape lowered the hands that had risen in reflex to protect his head.

He had expected Potter to vanish from his office the moment the door opened, but when the dust had cleared, the man was still standing in front of the opening, his right hand now raised to his eyes.

Snape could see that he was trembling slightly.

„It´s getting worse.", Potter suddenly whispered, his voice strained and raspy. Then, he closed his eyes and fell to his knees.

Ripples began to run over his body, rocking his skin like breakers on a beach. A sickly white glow surrounded him. Spasms shook him and tossed his body around like a rag doll. They could see strange forms moving under the skin of his hands and tendrils of magic escaped him, stretching out into the air around him that seemed to pulse in an eerie rhythm.

And through all this, Potter´s face didn´t even twitch. His head was tilted upwards, eyes open now. No groan of pain escaped his lips though his body convulsed as if under the Crucio, and a look of something almost like serenity lay in his eyes.

His utter, unmoved silence was even more frightening than his writhing, disintegrating body.

Someone screamed, but none of the staff moved his eyes from the sight of horror in front of them. If that was what Potter had referred to as „illness", he had badly understated his condition.

He was dissolving in a most painful and unattractive way.

And nobody made a move to stop it.

_This really is my lucky day_, Snape snarled to himself and shoved through the shocked teachers towards Potter. _At least I get to do this once._

And with the considerable strength he still possessed, Snape slapped the Wonder Boy hard across the cheek.

Potter blinked. The tendrils of magic withdrew inside him and the strange movements of his skin calmed down.

Bloodshot eyes met the Potions Master´s black one.

"Nice move," Potter whispered tiredly. "I will remember that for the next time."

And he collapsed on the office floor, a fallen figure in midst shattered glass.

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A/N: First of all: Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! They made me so happy! I really hadn´t expected this story to get so much attention, but you motivated me to get this chapter out sooner than I had intended.

House points to everyone who caught the "Lord of the Rings" quote!

To those who reviewed for the first chapter: I deleted the "Before you enter"-part, because Munku told me about ff.´s restrictions, and I didn´t want to risk this chapter being deleted. If you can´t review for it, just go back to chapter One and review there instead.

The next chapter will have medical examinations, a very pissed of Harry and a knowledgeable Snape who finally tells us what the fuck is going on.

Thank you all!

(And for the readers of the Lioness: Next chappie should be up in a few days.)


	3. Unwanted Explanations

Unwanted Explanations

Impressively enough, Potter snapped out of unconsciousness barely twenty minutes after they had transported his limp body to the infirmary. Pomfrey had predicted at least a day of unconsciousness and barely started her examination after a first control had shown his condition stable.

But there he was, eyes darting open and body tensing so fast they had barely time to react. One look at the white washed ceiling seemed to be enough for him to determine his whereabouts. But of course, Potter _had_ spent an unusual time in the infirmary, probably enjoying being fussed over and treated like a God.

"I really shouldn´t have come back." The young man whispered now. Snape was rather inclined to agree – he could have spared all of them quite a lot of trouble, but of course, the Headmaster wouldn´t share this sensible sentiment.

"Nonsense, my boy," he disagreed, clearly happy to be back in control and quite literally the one standing his ground. "Though you might not admit it to yourself, you probably came for help. And help is what you will get from us."

For a moment, Snape expected his former student to explode again. His eyes darkened and he could see his hands gripping the linen bedclothes so tightly his knuckles turned white, but then he lowered his lids and exhaled slowly. Tension trickled from his body and Snape found that after years and years of hammering it into him, the boy had – finally – learnt to control his temper.

Instead of shattering the windows of the infirmary, he relaxed back into his pillows and allowed Pomfrey to run her diagnosis scans. Only when she reached out to unbutton his black outer robes did his hand dart forward and tighten around her wrist.

"That won´t be necessary, Madame Pomfrey." He told her calmly.

"But Mister Potter, I…" She protested and tried to free her hand, but a sudden blaze from his green eyes silenced her.

_I have to remember that glare_, Snape told himself, having always had problems of keeping that busybody of a mediwitch at bay.

The results of the rather lengthy examination, during which Potter had refused to answer any question of a not medical nature, were as he had foretold.

"Something is obviously rather wrong with the boy." Pomfrey stated helplessly, eyes worried and posture dejected. "The damage to his neural system is extensive and his magic is running wild. He won´t survive this for long. But I can´t for the world tell what he suffers from."

Snape had watched the mediwitch´s efforts with growing apprehension. He was badly tempted to stay silent and let the brat die somewhere else, but Albus probably wouldn´t let him go even if there was no hope at all, and if his theory turned out to be true, more danger could come from this than just an untimely death. He would have to tell them.

"I believe I know what Potter suffers from." He announced into the silence, bracing himself for the chaos that would follow. Brilliant as they all might be, this staff could not be justly famed for discipline or a controlled noise level.

He simply let them babble on until all he encountered were indignant stares and muffled comments about his preference for "dramatic appearances". He didn´t even dignify that with a comment.

"What do you know about this, Severus?" The Headmaster finally asked.

"Potter´s illness is called Evanescence, or The Fading.", He calmly explained. "It is a very rare condition."

"Then how come you know about it?" Pomfrey piped in, clearly disgusted that a Potions Master would know more about an illness than she.

Snape sighed, exasperated, and sent the woman a death glare. She didn´t react, of course.

"I learnt about it because, twenty seven years ago, the Dark Lord ordered me to research and, if possible, inflict it on somebody."

He heard Tonks gasp behind him. "So You-Know-Who infected Harry with it when…"

"No Tonks," He snapped, finally at patience´s end. "We never managed to successfully produce a patient with Evanescence, and we are _not_ in a cheap sensation novel here. Now may I continue, or are we going to turn this into a quiz game?"

"Please continue, Severus." The Headmaster said, sending warning glances to the teachers around him. Potter, Snape noticed, hadn´t moved or reacted at all, merely turned his face towards Snape and listened quietly.

"The Fading is a magical disease, comparable to a personality disorder, but not on a psychological level. The mind remains unchanged, only the magical core is affected. If a person finds himself in a situation of severe mental and physical stress, his magical core – if it is extremely strong and the wizard powerful enough to survive this process – splits in two. One part remains with the patient, while the other part enters a level of alternative reality – and no, I´m not going to explain the multiverse theory right now, Tonks. The change might not become apparent for many years, but slowly, the magical core remaining in the patient´s body will move towards its counterpart, and the wizard or witch will fade away as his magic enters the alternative reality fully."

Silence. He could get quite used to having them all speechless, if only Potter wasn´t involved in it every time.

"And the fit he had?" McGonagall asked, her voice subdued. "Why does he suffer from that?"

"Those convulsions are the effect of the growing cleft between Potter and his magical core. To put it simply – Potter´s magic is trying to get away from him and his body tries to hold it back. The results are painful and rather… dramatic."

Snape paused, waiting for Potter to say something, to protest in horror or do whatever melodramatic deed a Gryffindor usually did in the face of fatal, exotic illnesses. But the brat remained silent, an unreadable expression in his face.

"Why isn´t this recorded anywhere?", Pomfrey asked warily, "Such a severe illness! I can´t believe..."

"There are only very old, and very obscure records about the Evanescence, because the situations inducing the splitting are normally so severe that no one would survive them. Persons experiencing such a high stress level normally die. That was why Voldemort had to give up his attempt after a while. He was killing and killing and we didn´t make any process."

A strange sound interrupted him, and it took Snape a while to realize that it was a laugh. Harry Potter, soon to be dead, was sitting on the side of his bead and laughing. Sure, it was a rather hoarse laugh, raspy at best, but a laugh.

"And there we have arrived at my problem again," he chuckled dryly, "After all, I am the Boy Who Just Bloody Can´t Seem To Die."

"Don´t say that, Harry!" Minerva sounded outright shocked, but Snape found himself rather amused. If it hadn´t be Potter, he might even have joined the dark smile that tainted the man´s face. But he wasn´t going to share anything with a Potter just because this specimen had finally developed a shred of humour.

"Exactly." He commented instead, his voice even drier. "And what a bloody nuisance that is, Potter."

"Severus!" A shocked cry from Dumbledore.

But Potter chuckled again. "I couldn´t agree more, Professor." He answered without a hint of anger.

Hurt and disappointment shone in the Headmaster´s eyes, but Potter didn't seem to care, and finally, the old man turned back towards Snape.

"Is there a known treatment, Severus?"

Snape nodded. "It is even more obscure, though." He warned. "The afflicted person and a healer with strong Occlumency skills must enter the patient´s memories, exactly at the point where the split has happened. Then the Occlumens must seal the two parts of the core back together before they have torn completely apart. For this, the patient and his memory must melt and the present person must relive the past memory once more. Theoretically, that should solve the problem."

"Well, we should be able to achieve the necessary prerequisites," The Headmaster mused, already deep in planning. "Both you, Severus, and I are strong Occlumens, and we should manage to…"

"No." Potter´s voice had lost all humour, it was as cold as a January day, and again, Snape could feel the power building. "Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. I will refuse that treatment, and I will leave this instance."

"But Mr Potter, would you really prefer dying to reliving a memory?" McGonagall cried out, shocked.

There was no faltering in Potter´s face. "Yes." He simply answered.

"Unfortunately," Snape cut in, and even he couldn´t enjoy the dread that seized the young man at his words. "There is more to it."

He stopped for a moment, unsure of how to put it, but then decided that there was no nice way of saying this, and since when had he cared for being nice, anyway?

"Not only the patient will die when the magical core crosses the threshold between realities. Everything that happened after the core´s splitting, everything the person acquired, achieved or changed after The Fading was induced, will be gone as well. Whatever influence the patient had on his world, whether good or evil, will be undone."

And yet another silence, but Snape suddenly found himself wishing for the babble of noise.

"Which means," Sprout finally said in a very small voice, "That if Mr Potter´s magical core split _before _he defeated You-Know-Who, the Dark will again be unleashed in our world?"

He really would have preferred to deny it, but he was a scientist after all, and lies wouldn´t help them here.

"Precisely." He answered.

It took Albus less time than the others to let the news sink in. Swaying slightly, he walked over to the still sitting young man.

"Harry…" He whispered, clearly not knowing how to address him, perhaps fearing an outburst of even larger dimensions.

But again, Potter surprised them all.

"I see." He simply answered after a moment, his voice calm and controlled, but with a terrible sadness lurking in the shadows. "So my destiny isn´t fulfilled after all. Instead of dying peacefully, I once more have the honour to rescue your world, Professor."

"I wish we wouldn´t have to ask it from you, Harry. Wouldn´t have to ask it in the very beginning." Albus answered, voice and heart breaking.

"So do I, Headmaster. But what use is there in wishes?" Potter replied. Suddenly he stood, all traces of sadness or exhaustion gone. His body vibrated with energy, but his hands were calm as he smoothed the front of his robes.

"So I suppose that means someone will accompany me on a trip down memory lane?" He asked.

"Yes, Harry." The Headmaster answered, clearly relieved that Potter was taking the whole thing so well, "I will prepare rooms for you in the castle and I will acquire all information concerning this illness from Severus immediately. We should be able to start…"

"No." Again, the young man´s voice was devoid of all emotion. "If we have to do this, we will do this on my terms. Not here in the castle, but in my house. And I won´t have you enter my memories, Headmaster. I request Professor Snape to take over the treatment."

"What?" Suddenly, all the respect he had harboured for the young man´s state was gone form Snape´s mind, replaced by a cold, cutting fury. "Are you mad, Potter? This illness can´t meddle with your brain, so it must clearly be your insufferable idiocy that brought this idea with it. I refuse to spend more time with you than I already had the misfortune to…"

"Severus," An old, unbending voice interrupted his ranting like the executioner´s axe cut through nerve and bone. All hope and resistance vanished, leaving nothing but dreary resignation in Snape´s mind. He knew what would follow. He knew that tone of voice.

"I´m afraid," The Headmaster told him, eyes twinkling ever so softly, and Snape had to suppress the urge to rip those damn blue orbs out of their sockets, "That we will have to do as Mr Potter asks."

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A/N: And thus ends the exposition of this story... It´s your decision now whether I should go on with this or not... Review, and tell me what you think!


	4. A Dark And Stormy Night Indeed!

A/N: Right! I'm back, and terribly sorry for the long absence, people! I solemnly swear I will update more often (the Lioness will be updated by the end of the week, too!). Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, I´m quite overwhelmed with the response to this story and will do my best to meet your expectations! I may not be able to answer to all of you individually from now on, as my free time is rather limited, but I will answer general questions as the beginning of each chapter, so ask on!

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A Dark And Stormy Night Indeed!

It was pitch black and raining heavily when two figures appeared with a pop in the middle of nowhere. One of the figures was cursing heavily under his breath, tightening his robes around himself with a disdainful sniff.

The other figure did nothing, and only the slightly raised head could have told a bystander that he had noticed the rain. Not that there was a bystander in the middle of this particular nowhere. Nor was there a house, or a shelter of any sort.

Finally, the still figure turned towards the cursing one and applied a Water Repellance charm onto him, being thanked by a muttered tirade about how they could have used a floo or at least apparated directly to the house.

"My house isn´t connected to the floo network, Sir," Potter explained calmly for the third time, "And the wards won´t allow us to apparate any nearer than this. At least not you, and I thought you´d prefer my company than walking the hills on your own."

From the other man´s glare, it was quite easy to see that he disagreed heartily.

Snape was seething inside. Not only had he been forced away from the castle and into Potter´s company for Hell knew how long, it had all happened in less than two hours, giving him neither time to prepare himself sufficiently, nor a chance to let the shock sink in.

Albus had proposed that Potter would spend the night in the infirmary while Snape prepared his departure and assembled the necessary equipment, but again, Potter had disagreed in that cold, stony voice of his, and Albus, happy now that he had ascertained contact between himself and the brat, had agreed to everything.

So Snape had been ushered down to the dungeons with barely enough time on his hand to pack his private things, not to speak about books, potions and ingredients.

When he returned to the infirmary, his two trunks shrunk and packed away into his pockets carefully, Potter was sitting on a bed in the infirmary as if he hadn´t a care in the world, fussed about by a hoard of excited females.

"If I may divert your attention from your fan club, Potter," he barked, ignoring the reproachful looks shot at him from every side. Potter just turned towards him. "I packed my working utensils and personal belongings. I will work through the necessary potions now and gather the supplies. In about five hours…"

"That won´t be necessary, Professor. You can do that at my house and I can guarantee you that all ingredients will be provided for." The brat had cut in, his voice and demeanour calm, but there was a desperate shine in his eyes that made Snape suddenly realize how badly Potter wanted to leave.

Now normally, that would have spurred the Potions Master into only more time-consuming actions, making sure that Potter went mad with waiting, but he hadn´t forgotten Potter´s rather violent solution of the locked-door-problem not more than a few hours earlier, and thus decided to comply.

After all, Potter had just received the news of his necessary survival, which seemed to bother him a great deal more than his death.

"Right then," He muttered, trying desperately not to sound as if he gave in to a Potter. "The sooner all this is over, the better."

He received a short nod from the younger man. "I couldn´t agree more, Professor. Shall we go then?"

"But how to reach you in the case of new developments, dear boy?" Dumbledore interrupted Harry´s exit. "We must know where to find you, and of course it is necessary to meet regularly. After all, we have to discuss the developments of your therapy."

From the darkening of Potter´s eyes, it was clear that he didn´t like the idea of meetings or even contact one bit. But the Headmaster´s face was stern now, and Snape knew him well enough to realize that he wouldn´t yield in this question. Obviously, Potter knew that look as well, for he nodded after a moment´s hesitation.

"I will send you an owl that can reach me," He offered. "Everything else we can discuss via letters. Are you satisfied with this solution, Headmaster?"

And the Headmaster had agreed heartily, wishing them goodbye with twinkling eyes and the murmured advice: "Take good care of the boy, Severus!" That had caused Snape to fantasize once more about the violent deaths of everybody he knew.

And now he was here, wherever here might be, freezing and tired and in a mood that was bad even for the gloomiest Potions Master ever.

Potter´s face was unreadable as they plowed through the mud and dirt of whichever place they had landed. It seemed as if they´d walked for at least half an hour now, but the man had kept his silence so far, a fact Snape was quite thankful for. Never had he become used to the incessant chatter most people believed to be entertaining. Not that he thought Potter would feel the need to entertain him.

Finally, the young man raised his arm and pointed into the darkness, flashing his old teacher a short smile.

"We´re nearly there," He explained, and resumed walking.

Snape couldn´t see any difference between the darkness in front of them and the darkness that loomed behind their backs. Obviously, nobody had bothered with street lamps or lanterns here and he couldn´t see any lightened windows that might have helped orientate him.

"Where are we, anyway?" He asked, angry that he was forced to trust Potter of all people with the way.

"Skye," Potter replied nonchalantly. "The northern part of it. I have a cottage here."

"So this is where you have been hiding all the time?"

Something like pain crossed the face that was glowing in the moonlight.

"Only for the last four years, Professor. Before that… I´ve been travelling. Among other things."

Snape had no problems imagining this. Harry Potter, enjoying the warm southern sun while they were hunting for the Death Eaters and worrying about him. Not Snape of course. He had never worried about Potter.

He wondered if he should share some of his darker sentiments concerning full-time-tourists with Potter, when suddenly, a house seemed to leap at him from the darkness. It hadn´t been there just a second before, he was sure of that, but now it presented its front to them, a medium sized cottage with an old, wooden entrance door.

Sighing in weary relief, Potter placed the palm of his hand on the dark wood and whispered a password Snape couldn´t make out. The door swung open and Snape made towards it, but a surprisingly strong grip on his arm kept him in his tracks.

"Not a very good idea, Professor," Potter said. "The wards are keyed to me and very strong. I have to introduce you to the house before it will let you in."

_Introduce me to the house_, Snape seethed as he watched Potter place his hand on the door´s wooden surface again, _I always knew he was sentimental, but now he´s even befriending houses._

Nothing perceptible happened, but after about five minutes, Potter stepped aside and extended an inviting arm.

"I have granted you full access," He said.

"I suppose you want me to thank you for your trust now," Snape snapped, not caring that he sounded stubborn. He was tired and irritated, and thoughts of his blazing fireplace with the comfortable armchair in front of it kept popping up.

"Not really," Potter had the audacity to smile at him again. "After all, it was me who dragged you here against your will. And thanks from you would shock me into oblivion, Professor."

Not knowing how to comment that further impertinence, Snape just scowled and swept into the house, leaving Potter outside, alone in the rain.

The cottage´s interior was the wildest mixture of muggle and wizard living styles Snape had ever seen. Without a word, Potter had switched the light on and started to remove his cloak, while Snape´s eyes travelled from the small entrance hall to something that was obviously the living room. To his surprise, the walls of the spacious chamber were lined with books.

"I work for a second-hand bookshop," Potter told him. "Or at least I used to work there until those fits made it impossible. Can´t start disintegrating in front of the island´s shocked inhabitants, can I?"

Potter waited while Snape removed his cloak silently. Snape was trying to imagine the famous Boy Who Lived as shop assistant in a shabby old book store and failing spectacularly. He considered a fitting remark for a moment, but he wasn´t in the mood for small talk, or any talk at all. Potter seemed to notice his mood, for he silently led him into a large kitchen and offered him a seat at an old cherry wood table, which Snape declined with a sneer.

"You must be hungry, Professor, at least I am. Would you like some stew? It´s from yesterday, but I believe…"

"I would like to get to work, Potter," Snape barked. "All these pleasantries are just a waste of time. Show me a room I can use and leave me alone."

For a moment, Potter seemed taken aback, but then he smiled again that infuriating smile of his, and Snape had to suppress a groan. It seemed impossible to provoke the brat, and while he had hated the irascible temper of the former boy, he preferred it to the mysterious calmth of the man by far.

"Of course, Professor," Potter agreed. "I should have known. Through here, please." He indicated a door at the opposite end of the room, and Snape ripped open the door, expecting some dusty storage room.

What he hadn´t expected was a potions laboratory, perfectly equipped and furnished.

Slowly, he moved through the room, prepared to launch into a scornful criticism of the facilities, but found that he couldn´t find any fault to justify his scorn. The room was illuminated only by candles and torches which Potter had lightened with a flick of his wand, so that no electricity would disturb the sensitive and often unstable magic handled in here. Tables and workspaces were as meticulously clean as the instruments laid out on them, and the assortment of cauldrons made of every possible material shone gently in the firelight.

Shelves of stored ingredients lined the walls, and Snape, examining critically, found that every basic potion ingredient and a lot of the more exotic ones was waiting for use.

Still, it was the stock of potions that really surprised him. Healing potions were carefully stoppered and stored besides pain blockers, Dreamless Sleep, Veritaserum and even Polyjuice. But it was an assortment of tiny crystal vials, filled with a liquid of deep scarlet, that made him hiss in shock.

With a slightly trembling hand he reached out for it, removed the cork and sniffed in its smells. There could be no doubt. It was the cloaking potion he had designed years ago for the Dark Lord, used to hide a person´s magical signature from detection.

He remembered down how many throats he had forced this potion, how many wizards and witches had foregone all hope of rescue because of this innocent, scarlet brew. His hands shook violently as he replaced the vial and turned around to Potter.

"How do you know of this Potion?" He breathed in shock.

His dark years and their dark memories had been so far away only moments ago, and now they had crashed back on him like a huge wave that threatened to drown him. His cruelty and malice, his betrayal and the unspeakable deeds he had committed to keep his cover…

"You made it, didn´t you?" Harry smiled sadly when he just nodded, speechless for once. "Voldemort used it on me after I was captured." He explained quietly. "I took some vials with me after I killed him, thinking it could be useful. It took me some time, but I finally managed to reproduce it."

Normally, even the idea of Potter being able to reproduce something Snape had developed would have made him laugh, but still the memories washed over him, and all he could do was keep his stony mask of indifference in place as he struggled with his personal demons.

Nevertheless, Potter must have felt something, for his eyes darkened and every trace of humour left his face.

"I´ll leave you to your work then, Professor," He announced. "Call me if you need anything."

It took him nearly ten minutes to calm his breathing and relax the tight muscles of his back, ten minutes of bitter reminiscences and a phantom pain on his left forearm.

Damn the Potter brat for having brought all that up again. But there was nothing to do about it. He could only work as quickly as possible to get it over with.

That was why Snape pushed the memories back into the dark dungeons of his mind and started unpacking. About an hour later, the door opened again. Snape raised his head to glare at the intruder, but Potter just put down the tray he was carrying and left the room without a word.

The stew was quite good, actually, as was the freshly baked bread and Snape wondered for a moment who cooked and cared for the Brat Who Lived, but was soon again lost in his work.

Until, around three hours past midnight, he was finished.

"Potter!" He barked, and the door to the lab opened only seconds later. Apparently, Potter had waited in the kitchen for the last few hours to be called inside.

"Yes, Professor," He asked. "What can I do for you?"

Snape snorted. Potter´s continued politeness made him itchy and nervous. The boy had always hated him, and probably only requested Snape for the healing out of sheer malice.

"These are the ingredients I need," He grumbled, handing over a sheet of parchment. "I don´t really expect you to get most of them. I will have to return to Hogwarts to…"

"It will be taken care of, Professor," Potter interrupted him calmly. "Now, may I show you your room?"

"No. You may hand over your memories."

At that, the young man paled considerably. His hands flexed and his eyes narrowed slightly, as if expecting an attack.

"How are we going to proceed?" He asked, his voice lowered nearly to a whisper. "Will you enter my mind?"

"No," Snape answered, enjoying the crack that had finally appeared in Potter´s self control Why make such a fuss over it? _Remember how you felt when he entered your pensieve_, a voice inside him whispered, sounding suspiciously alike to Albus, but he chose to ignore it.

"I will remove all the memories that contain a certain level of stress and pain, and we will search them chronologically for the splitting of your core with the help of my pensieve."

At the mentioning of the pensieve, Potter lowered his head and Snape could see a blush spreading over his face. _Now really_, he thought disbelievingly, how old was that boy to blush like a girl?

"About that, Professor," Potter murmured. "I believe I… never apologized for that incident during my fifth year. I´m still… very sorry about it, Sir, and I was so at the time."

And again, Harry Potter had rendered someone speechless.

"Just forget it," Snape finally growled, not willing to discuss that right now. Great! Potter was barely a day back and already, Snape couldn´t concentrate on his work because all that emotional mayhap got in the way. "Are you ready?"

Potter just nodded, refusing to meet his former teacher´s look. His eyes fell on the assortment of small vials lined along the edge of the work table.

"If those are for the memories," He pointed out. "They won´t be enough. You need more."

"I brought twenty vials, Potter," Snape snapped, shock and surprise once more overcome by the usual irritation. "Don´t be so melodramatic to believe you could fill all of those. I set the stress level for those memories quite high."

"Do as you wish," Potter merely shrugged, calm again, and offered his temple.

Muttering swear words under his breath, Snape lifted his wand and placed it on Potter´s pale skin. A lot of thought and planning had gone into this selective memory removal charm, but he hand´t expected Potter to appreciate his work.

He started with the oldest memories, withdrawing those that fit the stress and pain level one by one, and worked his way forward in time.

After ten minutes, the twenty vials were filled. But there seemed to be no end to the memories.

Snape stared at the row of glass vials filled with the silvery liquid of memories.

"There must be something wrong with the spell," He thought aloud and proceeded to test the retrieved memories. They all fit the pattern of stress and pain level he had set.

To his merit, nothing in Potter´s posture or face indicated the "I told you so" Snape had expected.

"There are more vials in the cupboard over there," He simply told him, pointing to the other side of the room. "I cleaned them thoroughly."

His black robes billowed behind him as Snape crossed the room and collected the box of vials, checking the cleanness of every single one and making sure that Potter could see what he did.

But Potter seemingly didn´t even notice his attempts of provocation, a fact which only angered Snape more. "Stop daydreaming," He snapped.

"It is strange," Potter answered as if he hadn´t heard the harshness of Snape´s words. "I always expected to feel… lighter after giving up my memories. Professor Dumbledore told me once that he used his pensieve when he felt overwhelmed by thoughts and wished to distance himself from them. But I don´t feel distanced, or relieved."

"That´s because I didn´t pull the whole memories from your mind," Snape explained reluctantly. "There is still a connection between you and the memory. Otherwise, our treatment simply wouldn´t work."

Potter chuckled. "And gone is the one advantage I could see in all this. Brilliant."

"How much that wonderful attitude lightens my work, Potter," Snape sneered. "Now shut up and let me continue."

Another quarter of an hour later, 42 vials of silvery liquid stood on the worktable, numbered and corked, waiting for use.

While Potter examined them with mild interest, Snape could barely contain his fury. This would take much longer than he had expected to. They couldn´t hope to tackle more than four memories a day, and as Potter´s condition would worsen, so would his ability to work and accompany Snape.

He hoped the splitting wasn´t hidden in one of the last memories. He hoped they would have enough time left to find and heal it.

"You can probably forget about the first ten or so memories," Potter now said lightly. "They must be pre-Hogwarts and nothing bad enough to have split my core happened before my eleventh birthday."

"When I last looked, I was still the expert on this illness here, Potter," Snape snarled, angry at Potter´s quiet acceptance of a situation he himself considered a catastrophe.

"But I´m the expert on my life, aren´t I?" Potter simply answered, and Snape felt the urge to punch that confident, calm face in front of him.

Instead, he settled for a death glare and the best scowl he could manage in his tired state, hoping against his better knowledge for another fit so that he could slap the boy.

"Show me my room and then leave me to my work, Potter," He ordered, and Potter complied.

Not without the audacity of wishing the Professor "A good night and sweet dreams", though. Snape was very much tempted to throw a vial of acid at the retreating man.

A/N: Review! Please?


	5. A Mad Murderess

A Mad Murderess

The morning sun found Severus Snape wide awake in the kitchen, brewing yet another pot of strong, black tea.

He had worked deep into the night, preparing everything that was possible without the necessary potions ingredients. He only hoped Potter would be able to procure them – though he very much doubted it – for it would take him days to order and receive them from his usual sources. Days they didn´t have.

The longer he had worked, only pausing now and then to glare at the shimmering vials of memories, the more worried he had become. With the tight schedule they had, all would depend on Potter's strength and endurance, which in turn depended on Snape's potions and his ability to keep the brat as calm and relaxed as possible. And while Snape had absolute trust in his brewing skills, he very much doubted his ability to not snap at Potter continuously. Potter was like an itching toe, a point of constant irritation and impossible to ignore.

And yet, Snape would have to keep him alive, which meant the avoidance of any stress, be it emotional or physical. While forcing him to live through his most terrifying memories, by the way. He snorted.

Snape was just placing the kettle back on the stove when he heard a sound behind him. Not Potter, who was probably still snoring away in his upstairs room, but the soft footsteps of someone who didn´t want to be noticed. Silently, careful to not make any conspicuous movements, he drew his wand.

But before he could whirl around and hex whoever was sneaking into the kitchen, a hand grasped his forehead, jerked his head back and his throat came into sudden contact with cold steel.

"Drop the wand." A voice snarled near his right ear and Snape obeyed, though reluctantly. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"

"Eating." Snape answered coolly, taking care to sound as if it was an everyday question. "And who are you?"

"What have you done to the boy?" His attacker snarled again, and this time, Snape was sure: the stranger was a woman. A very old woman, with a voice as rusty and rasping as the movements of a gnarled tree. Was she a Death Eater? Or were there any other groups out for Potter´s head. It wouldn´t surprise Snape, as he himself had thought of hiring assassins to finish the brat more than once.

"What makes you think I did anything to him? I could be his guest, for all you know."

"You are a _wizard_!" The woman hissed. "The boy would never associate with the likes of you."

Snape relaxed slightly at the tone of her voice. He could make out care, and worry. So she was on Potter´s side – all he had to do now was to convince her not to kill him.

"Well, he _does_ associate with me, and of free will." _Although the last part is not strictly true._

"Stop lying and tell me where he is. You have three seconds before I kill you."

"Now really," Snape answered, thinking fast. "He could be anywhere! In his bedroom, or under the shower. I don´t know…"

"That´s not very satisfying. Three seconds are over." She whispered coldly and he wanted to laugh at the sheer irony of this. After twenty-seven years of fighting against the darkest wizard the world had seen, he was to be killed in a sunny kitchen, by an old, probably raving mad, woman.

"Professor, why… Ayda! Let him go immediately!" It was probably the first time Potter´s voice produced more positive feelings than irritation in Snape. _Well, he could have come a bit earlier_, he grumbled to compensate for that moment of weakness.

He could feel mistrust radiating from the woman behind him, and for a moment he worried she wouldn´t obey. "Are you sure?" She asked, turning her head towards the kitchen door from where Potter´s voice had come.

"Of course I´m sure. Don´t be a bitch, Ayda." Potter answered impatiently.

And Snape was released. He bent down quickly to retrieve his wand, then whirled around to his attacker.

It was indeed a woman, and a very old one at that. Her silver hair flew around her head in wild locks, and her skin had the consistency of wrinkled leather. A pair of very blue eyes stared at him from below bushy eyebrows, a pair of eyes that held a rather unfriendly expression.

"Is it normal that mad murderers stroll around your kitchen, Potter?" He demanded coldly.

To his immense irritation, Potter just chuckled as the woman sent him a wary look. She hadn´t re-sheathed the knife, he noticed.

"No Professor." Potter answered. "Just this one mad murderess. Her name is Ayda and she´s a friend of mine. Though she overdoes the act, sometimes." He added, sending the old woman a warning glance.

"This is Professor Snape, Ayda. He´s come to deal with my illness, which, by the way, finally acquired a name and a possible treatment."

"Good for it." She replied shortly, then placed the knife into a sheath at her hip and proceeded to eye Snape curiously. "So this is Professor Snape." She said, clearly having heard about him before. From what he expected Potter to have told about him, Snape was rather surprised she had put away the knife and not attacked him again.

But to his even greater surprise, her face broke into a lopsided grin that turned her skin into a rock face of wrinkles. She stepped towards him and offered a large, callused hand.

"Glad to meet you, Snape." She announced. "Heard only the best about you!"

This shocked Snape. Being attacked from behind – he was used to that. But being welcomed by a friend of Potter with a smile and a handshake? Something of his confusion must have shown on his face, for Potter chuckled again in that annoying way of his, and moved over to the kitchen counter.

"Let´s sit down and have tea." He proposed. "You brought the supplies, Ayda?"

"Left them outside when I saw him in the kitchen." She explained, indicating with a flick of her hand quite unnecessarily who _him_ was. She left through the garden door and re-entered a moment later with a bundle that looked like rags tied into a ball.

She sat on the chair Potter offered, gulped down the tea he poured her without a word, and started rummaging through the bundle while Potter refilled her cup, then served Snape and himself.

Snape´s irritation turned into surprise, which slowly grew to astonishment. One by one, the old woman produced the ingredients he had ordered, from the powdered unicorn horn, which was restricted in use to only registered Potions Masters, to the dried Shadow fern, which was outright illegal, all wrapped in the same, dirty parchment that looked like it had come out of some garbage heap.

"Should be everything," She muttered, closing her bundle and placing it beside her chair. Then, she fixed a critical look on Potter.

"You look dreadful," Ayda commented coolly, as if he was a strange plant or animal. "All pale and worn. How long till you´re dead?"

Potter just shrugged his shoulders. "Couple of weeks, probably," He answered just as coolly. "Depends on the convulsions. But Professor Snape here invented a rather brilliant way of snapping me out of them."

"That so?"

"He hit me."

"Oh," Ayda eyed Snape again, this time with outright respect. "Call me when you need assistance for that, Professor."

Potter just snorted, as if they were talking about some recipe.

Against his will, Snape found himself forced to enter the conversation. "You will not die, Potter. At least not if I can help it."

"So what will you do to stop that?" Ayda again, sounding flippantly, as if the denial of Potter´s death offended her. He found himself wondering if she really was Potter´s friend.

"Treat him."

"How?"

And so, not without a deep sigh to show his exasperation, Snape plunged into yet another explanation of Potter´s illness and its treatment.

And when he finished, Ayda´s face had changed. For the first time since this talk about death and its prevention had begun, she showed signs of concern, and sorrow. _Though I wonder why she worries more about the treatment than the illness._

"I´m sorry, boy," She told Potter now, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "There´s no way around it?"

"None that I could think of yet."

"I´ll help you think, then."

"Excuse me," Snape nearly growled, tired by this acute display of sphinxism. "We´re talking about his treatment here. Though I don´t see why anybody should wish to be a friend of Potter´s, if you are one, you should have the sense to be glad instead of condoling him!"

Once again, she shot him a long, critical look, and Snape couldn´t help but wonder if Potter had learned his glaring from her. "And you told me he was clever," She said to Potter in an accusing tone.

"He is. Brilliant, even," Potter answered calmly, and Snape´s brows rose in disbelief. "He´s just not very good with people things. Do you care for breakfast, Ayda?"

And Snape decided to keep his mouth shut, fearing that only confused stuttering would escape it. That would simply not do.

So he watched silently as Potter set the table and Ayda, who had not lifted a hand to help her young friend, wolfed down food hungrily.

"How are Rim, and Cary?" He asked, while setting a plate down in front of his Potions Master. "Did the amulets help?"

"Perfectly," She replied in between two bites. "Though Cary's still ugly as the night. But Rim's driving himself crazy now, wondering when you will collect his debt."

And so they went on, for nearly twenty minutes, exchanging news and questions about strange people and unknown places. Potter had turned towards Snape several times, as if to explain something or include him into the conversation, but the death glare his old Potions Master sent him every time stopped him quite effectively. At least one success for the day, Snape thought darkly while doing his best to store all this casual information in some part of his memory, ready to be re-examined whenever he could spare the time.

"And how was the old man?" Ayda now asked, her tone of voice suggesting a disdain that normally was reserved for slimy things that had crawled out of the gutters, again. "Meddling as always?"

Potter nodded mutely. "Tried to keep me there," He answered after a moment of silence, and Snape realized with a shock that the old woman was talking about Dumbledore, hero of the wizarding world. "I only managed to escape because Professor Snape was willing to come here. Otherwise, I would be incarcerated in some tower by now and force fed with sweets."

"I told you it was a bad idea to return there," Ayda said, no compassion noticeable in her voice. "Wizards are that way. You can't change them, only hit them over the head and run."

Amusement warmed Potter's voice as he met his friend's eyes squarely. "_I_ am a wizard, too, Ayda!"

"Well, we all have our shameful little secrets, Potter," She commented lightly, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

Potter raised his hands in mock terror. "Please spare me yours," he pleaded. "I don't want to become blind _and _deaf at so young an age!"

Ayda chuckled in agreement, and for one, surreal moment, something in that chuckle told Snape that Potter hadn't been joking. At least not completely.

"Oh, by the way," She then announced in a voice that was slightly too by the way. "I met Shadow yesterday and he asked me why you hadn´t visited for weeks. I told him that your illness had gotten worse and he…"

Potter buried his head in his hands and groaned loudly. "Why did you have to tell him?" He wailed. "He will be furious!"

"Well, he was," She admitted reluctantly. "But you should have told him, you know."

Snape, having given up on understanding anything for the moment, leaned back and observed Potter´s strange reaction with interest.

"I know," He admitted wearily, not meeting Ayda´s reproachful eyes. "But he will be going all protective over me, and fuss, and threaten people, and propose to turn me… He´s always worrying so much about me."

"Well, he had good reason to do so in the past, hadn´t he?" Ayda commented. "The state you were in when he…"

A warning look from Potter silenced her, and Snape found his curiosity rising. Whoever this Ayda and the mysterious Shadow were, there seemed to be more to Potter´s unknown past than just work in a bookshop and travelling. Not that he cared, personally, but he preferred to know as much about people as he could, and obviously, Potterr had changed during the last eight years. He wasn´t sure yet if for the better or the worse.

"I´ll visit him." Potter finally ended the contest of silent stares that had taken place between him and the old woman. "Tomorrow, perhaps. It depends on Professor Snape´s plans."

His eyes seemed to ask forgiveness from the woman for his harsh reaction, and the tiny smile that grazed her lips seemed to grant it.

"Well then," Ayda finally said and stood, once more shouldering her bundle. "You think you´ll be still alive in a week?"

"I will do my best," Potter answered with a grin.

"Then we´ll see each other again, brat," She grinned back, and to Snape´s horror, sank into a rather badly balanced curtsey in front of Snape. "Keep an eye on him, Master Potions Master," She admonished him. "And work on that people thing. It needs training."

And with that, she was gone.

Snape sighed and poured himself another cup of tea. "Care to enlighten me what all this was about, Potter?" He asked lightly, making sure to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

Potter sighed and left the table, intending to brew another cup of tea.

"I´m sorry, Professor," He apologized. "I should have warned you, but I didn´t expect her to arrive so soon. My letter must have sounded pretty urgent. She´s very worried about me."

"She hid it well," Snape couldn´t help remarking. Potter smiled again, a far away expression in his eyes.

"They do, usually. They are not very emotional. Their's is a hard life."

"Who are we talking about, Potter?" Snape asked, little patience in his voice.

Potter cringed. Clearly, this wasn´t something he wished to reveal, but Snape had never been someone to let difficult topics pass. The more unpleasant for Potter, the better.

"Ever heard about the Druids?" Potter offered after a long moment of silence.

"GOOD GODS POTTER!" Snape had sprung up from the chair as if something had bitten him. Fury was radiating from him as he faced his former student. "Don´t tell me you associated with the Druids! Of all the stupid things…"

"Well," Potter answered after a while of silent staring, his voice very small. "You did, too. Just now, to be exact. Ayda is the leader of the British Druids."

Snape groaned, a sudden headache hammering behind his forehead, and sank back onto his chair. "The bloody leader of the bloody British Druids…" He murmured in shock.

The Druids were legendary, or, to be more precise, infamous. Wizards and witches themselves, they refused any contact with the life, customs and laws of the wizarding world. They were travelling people, and accepted orders and payment from muggles.

Their open announcement of the existence of magic had led to their banishment from the wizarding society in the 19th century. No wizard was to contact them. There were rumours, however, of banished wizards being adopted by the Druids, of magical children, stolen from their cribs, and rituals that went beyond even what dark wizards dared use. Dark wizards before Voldemort, that was.

"They are not as bad as their reputation," Potter saw it fit to defend his friend. "And I never saw them do something illegal… at least, nearly never."

"The ingredients spread just now on your kitchen table prove the opposite, Potter," Snape hissed. "And why was she able to enter the house? I thought you had the best wards possible?"

"The house is completely open to her. She´s my friend," Potter answered and Snape groaned again. "In fact, the room you slept in is often used by her, and she sometimes takes possession of my lab, too."

So Potter was harbouring dangerous criminals in his home? Why wasn´t he surprised.

"How the hell did you…" He began, intending to demand an explanation of this unbelievable friendship, but changed his mind along the way. "Never mind," He snapped. "And who is this Shadow she was talking about?"

If possible, Potter´s nervousness and embarrassment even heightened.

"Shouldn´t we be starting the procedure?" He asked, in a badly conceived effort to change the topic.

Snape raised a brow in surprise. For Potter to manoeuvre their talk towards his treatment, he must be desperate to hide something about this Shadow. But he decided to let it pass, They didn´t have much time, after all.

"Yes. Finish breakfast, then join me in the lab. There are several potions I have to brew, but I will do so in your resting periods. We need to hurry, Potter, if we want to heal you before it is too late."

He kept his last thought silent, but from Potter´s expression, he could have said it aloud as well, so obvious was his fear: _Perhaps we´ll be too late, anyway._

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_A/N: How_ do you like Ayda? I'm giving you a choice to let her disappear if you don't want her! Just review (hint!) and tell me what you think about her.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews - I'm impressed with the reaction to this story and very happy about all the known and unknown names I can read on my review page. thank you all thousands of times! (And go on like that!)


	6. Into the Pensieve

A/N: Hello, everybody! 

I know that this scene has been done a thousand times, which is why I was a bit anxious to write it… again. But I hope you´ll like it anyway, and that my special twist will give it at least a semblance of originality.

Still I want to say that my description of this is heavily influenced all the times I read it in the stories of other authors who are a hundred times better than me. Thank you all for those stories!

And thank you for your wonderful reviews, of course!

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**Into the Pensieve**

Severus Snape was tired and irritated. If there was one thing he hated more than Voldemort and the Potters, it was being out of control.

And here he was, in the home of a Potter, with the threat of Voldemort´s return hanging over him and his control shredded to pieces more than once over the course of the last twenty four hours.

And now he was to witness the pitiable events of the Potter brat´s childhood. The boy had probably gotten himself into deep trouble every other week and rescue took longer than in the wizarding world, he mused. Potter´s nature as a troublemaker had been proven to him by years and years of rule breaking, the resulting catastrophes and near-death situations. He only wondered how he could have developed this talent so young.

As the grey mists of the pensieve engulfed him, Snape found himself wishing fervently for a class of easily impressed first years. Potter didn´t behave as if he would be impressed any time soon.

Perhaps it was this whole state of extreme grumpiness paired with a lack of sleep that caused the unusual slowness in the normally so attentive spy.

When the fogs around them cleared, he found himself in a hallway that looked normal enough, that is, for muggle standards. The place breathed mediocrity and boredom in a way even Snape, who had visited a fair share of muggleborn students' houses over the years, had seldom encountered.

Snape wondered how any harm could have come to Potter in a place as ordinary as this one. But still, muggles managed to kill themselves with bread knives or other embarrassments every day.

He turned around to Potter, ready to demand an explanation of the problems to come, but Potter wasn't even looking at him. Instead, the brat was examining the hallway with nostalgic eyes and a sad little half-smile on his lips.

„I forgot how small this place was," He whispered, seemingly lost in thoughts.

„Well, you could have visited often enough if you hadn't decided to vanish from the face of the earth," Snape snarled, angry that Potter still didn't take this seriously. „But no, you had to ignore every..."

„I couldn't have visited," Potter simply answered. „The Dursleys were killed three weeks into my sixth year, and the house was sold shortly afterwards."

„Impossible. Your house was heavily warded. The Order would have known immediately!"

„Oh, but it wasn't warded anymore when the Death Eaters came," Potter replied lightly, never ceasing his inspection of the hallway as if he was conversing about the weather. „When Dumbledore decided that summer that I wouldn't return there, he lifted the protections completely. So you wouldn't have known. I only found out because Mrs Figg wrote to me, asking if she should retrieve anything from the house before it was sold. I don't know whether even Dumbledore ever found out about it.

„Now, lets see," He continued, completely ignoring Snape's shocked expression. Snape knew that Potter had never liked his muggle relations, but to talk about their murder like that – no wonder Potter had simply abandoned his friends and comrades after the Dark Lord's death when he felt so little about other persons. But that Dumbledore should have left these muggles so entirely without protection rather surprised him. It wasn't like the Headmaster to endanger persons' lives like that…

„Judging from the pictures," Potter now told him, still the impersonation of calmness. „Dudley and I should be about five or six. I don't know what exactly happened, but as it is early morning…"

Without the slightest explanation, Potter went over to a built in cupboard that was situated under the stairs and opened its door, revealing nothing but darkness and a few, hastily retreating spiders.

"No," He muttered under his breath. "I should be in the kitchen then. Please follow me, Professor."

Potter had guessed correctly. There was no mistaking the boy that stood by the oven, juggling with pans and pots. Potter-the-child looked incredibly small, barely able to reach the hearth-plates on which a variety of morning dishes were being prepared.

He looked no older than four or five, but it had always been difficult to tell the boy's age. Only now, that Snape saw the scrawny, meagre flea preparing breakfast, did he remember how skinny and huge eyed the Boy Who Lived had been during his first years of Hogwarts.

"What are you doing there?" He asked Potter-the-man now, who had wordlessly chosen a seat at the kitchen table. "Aren't you a bit young to fuss around the oven? But you probably touched everything that came in your way, danger or not."

Potter just chuckled, as if enjoying a joke only he could make out. "Something like that," He answered mildly. "Breakfast was my job since I turned five. I was always quite good at cooking, actually."

Suddenly, a trampling noise was heard outside, reminding Snape rather of that mad Hippogriff the Order had hidden in Grimmauld Place for a while.

"It seems that Dudley's coming, Professor," Potter explained. "You had better move aside a bit."

Mutely following the advice, Snape had just stepped away from the kitchen door when it was ripped open violently. A fat, ugly little boy had appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, it's _you" _He said, his face twisted in a grimace of disgust. "Where's mum?"

"On the phone," The younger Potter replied absently, his eyes never leaving the porridge. He seemed oddly concentrated on the easy task, as if all the world depended on breakfast being just perfect.

"I wish you had ever developed that type of concentration for Potions, Potter," Snape muttered darkly. "Perhaps your work wouldn't have been your usual complete mess, then."

"I'm afraid you simply were't terrifying enough for that, Professor."

Now what the hell did that mean? Snape found that he was beginning to seethe again. He had always felt great pride in his ability to intimidate students at will, and he had given his very best with Potter. The impertinence of that boy…

Suddenly, the fat boy left his place by the door and stamped on the other boy's foot, employing all of his considerable weight. Without wanting to, Snape winced in sympathy as he imagined the pain, but the young Potter didn't even flinch. He just kept watching the porridge, as if this event wasn't worth noticing.

"That's 'On the phone, Master Dudley' to you, freak," Dudley whined. "Who's she talking with?"

Potter just shrugged. "Don't know," He answered, only to earn a hard kick against his shin. "Master Dudley," He added sarcastically.

"Oh, I think I know what's coming now," the older Potter commented from the kitchen table. "And it's not good at all."

"You know that's not exactly a precise information, do you?" Snape growled.

"Well, I never was any good in Divination, Professor," Potter replied, actually grinning and completely ignoring the punch Dudley had just landed on his younger self's stomach.

"Don't go funny with me, freak," The fat boy hollered, his face red with anger. "Daddy says you're lucky we let you live in our house, give you clothes and food! Daddy says you must show us gratetood!"

"That's gratitude, Dudley," the child-Potter commented and his older self chuckled. "See, Professor?" He said towards Snape. "I never kept my mouth shut. Seems to be a genetical fault."

"Why is that ugly boy treating you that way?" Snape demanded to know as he once again became witness to a one-sided kicking and punching match.

Potter shrugged. "I'm no good at psychology, Professor," He answered. "But I would say because he learned it from his parents."

As if on cue, Dudley started yelling. "You're only jealous 'cause you don't have a house, and a room, and parents," He shrieked, accompanying each word with a kick to Potter's shin. "And 'cause your father was a drunk, and your mother a slut!"

And for the first time since they had entered the memory, the younger Potter reacted. Snape saw his eyes go pale with anger, the pale green of the killing curse, and suddenly, the boy looked dangerous.

The older Potter sighed, watching his incarnated past with a mixture of impatience and sympathy. "Here goes my Gryffindor side again," He said, left the table and retreated quickly to the far side of the room. "You might wish to step aside, Professor, because…"

"Don't you talk about my parents this way!" The younger Potter suddenly shouted, and shoved his cousin away from the kitchen counter.

It was a rather weak shove, and, compared to the punches the fat boy had dealt out only seconds before, seemed like nothing to Snape, but Dudley immediately started to howl with pain.

"Daddy! Daddy!" He shrieked. "Harry hit me! He hit me! Daddy!"

Suddenly, fear replaced the anger in Potter's eyes, the fear of a wounded animal in a situation with no escape. His eyes shot towards the corridor, fixed on the stairs in silent panic, while he edged away from Dudley and the oven.

And then they heard it. The loud, angry steps of a man, walking above their heads, approaching the stairs, descending them with heavy footfalls. Potter-the-child, seized by silent terror, darted through the kitchen, towards the backdoor, but Dudley had guessed his purpose and started screaming again.

"He's running, Daddy, he's trying to get through the backdoor! Get him, Daddy! He hurt me!"

Panting heavily in fear, Potter yanked the door open and was half through when large, meaty hands grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the kitchen table. The impact drove the air out of Potter's lungs and he cried out in pain.

The mass of flesh that had thundered through the kitchen door and yanked Potter away from his escape route was in fact, as Snape noticed now with growing irritation, a rather large and very fat man with a face as read as an overripe tomato.

"What did you do to my Duddykins-boy," He shouted, banging Potter's head against the kitchen table in the rhythm of his words. Potter-the-child gasped and tried to twist out of his uncle's grip, but the man, completely oblivious to his surroundings in his fury, just grabbed him harder by the collar and dragged him out of the kitchen, into the corridor.

The last thing Snape could see before the kitchen door banged shut behind the fat man and the tiny boy was Potter's panic-stricken face, quickly losing all colour as the blood drained from his head.

"I think we should move into the corridor now, Professor," Potter-the-man calmly told Snape. "The reason this memory showed as a possible starting point for the Evanescence will happen there, I think."

"Why did that muggle do that to you, Potter," Snape asked, still too astonished to notice that he was asking his arch-nemesis a question, and a stupid one at that.

Suddenly, Potter looked tired. His hand moved through his hair in a gesture so known to Snape after years of teaching the boy in class that he didn't have to interpret it on a conscious level. Frustration, this movement meant, and resignation.

"Because I hurt his son, Professor," Potter replied. "Or at least he thought I did. Uncle Vernon never needed much reason for his actions. Let's get into the corridor now, or we will have to replay the whole sequence."

And suddenly, in a flash of understanding, Snape realized what had been wrong about this scene from the very start, and he cursed himself for not having noticed it before.

The overlarge clothes of the boy, his meagre frame and his strange lack of reaction to the other boy's provocation. All fitted together, and Snape had seen that blind panic more than one time in the eyes of a child. A child that was being abused.

This couldn't be! Snape stared after his former pupil in shock, every cell of his being denying the conclusion he had come to. He couldn't ignore what his eyes had told him, but neither could he explain Potter's strange lack of reaction to his younger self's fate.

Shouting filled his ears as he crossed the kitchen and entered the corridor, moving over to the staircase, where Potter-the-man had sat down, watching the scene unfolding with mild interest.

"Vernon has worked himself into a fury, and I was stupid enough to talk back at him," Potter explained as if Snape had missed a part of a play and had to be brought up to date to understand the plot.

"Did he do that often? Work himself into a fury?" Snape asked, noticing at the same time as Potter that he had taken on a tone completely different from his normal one. It was the way he used to speak to his Slytherins when they were in serious trouble, near the breakdown point.

_Trying to be professional, Severus, aren't we?_ He thought dryly, but the amused grin spreading on Potter's face wiped all professionalism away in a heartbeat.

"Now Professor," he admonished, chuckling in that annoying way of his, "Don't fuss. I'm still the same, irritating brat you have been teaching for seven years. And if I managed to survive this without counselling, I can certainly do without now."

From everyone else, this would have sounded bitter and resigned. With the strange man Potter had turned into, it was the simple stating of a fact, and it seemed that this fact made all further discussion unwanted, for Potter turned away from Snape again and redirected the Professor's attention to his younger self.

"Constant vigilance, Professor," He said. "You're missing the climax."

Dursley's fury seemed to have reached the boiling point. He had sent Potter-the-child tumbling to the floor once more and was now yanking him up with uncaring violence, whirling him around against the wall of the corridor.

And with an ugly snap, Potter's left wrist broke. The boy didn't scream, and no tears formed in his huge eyes. A small whimper escaped his lips, but then they thinned, and Snape could see that the child had bitten on his lips hard, to stop himself from crying out.

Wordlessly, the child-Potter stared at his uncle, his eyes wide and confused and full of pain. Supporting his left arm with his right hand, he stretched the bruised hand out to Dursley, a silent gesture of desperate pleading.

"Serves you right, you freak," Vernon Dursley bellowed and forcefully pushed the broken limb away, knocking Potter off his feet in the process.

This time, Potter did cry out, and the painful sound earned him a kick in the ribs.

"Look up," Dursley demanded roughly, and slowly, the boy raised his eyes towards the adult towering in front of him.

Snape saw the utter disbelief in those green eyes, that a grown-up, someone belonging to his family, had hurt him this way.

"Just so you know, boy," Vernon growled, and it was a miracle to Snape that the man could even speak in the presence of these painful, terribly old eyes. "Never dare to hurt Dudley again, or you will receive much more. You are not worth the dirt under our Dudley's feet, and if I ever, ever catch you at something like that again, you will be thrown out of the house without a second thought."

Still, Potter didn't make a sound or move. Still, his green eyes were fixed on his uncle's face in the mute plea for an explanation.

"Now get out of my sight, boy!" Vernon shouted.

In that very moment, something in those eyes broke.

Potter-the-child lowered his head, and his body seemed to go limp. He didn't react as Dursley once more grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him up, dragging him through the corridor towards the built in cupboard Potter had opened before.

Dursley now yanked the cupboard door open, shoved the child through and closed the door again, locking it without a single word. Then, he disappeared back into the kitchen, where they could soon hear him soothing and consoling the still crying Dudley.

Silence reigned supreme.

Snape's eyes searched and found the older Potter, who seemed totally unmoved by the scene that had unfolded in front of them. He was once again moving along the wall, examining the photos and smiling to himself that mysterious, infuriating smile.

"Why did he throw you into that cupboard, Potter?" Snape finally demanded to know, only now noticing how his fists had tightened around the railway of the staircase, when he realized that Potter wouldn't explain on his own account. "Was that a punishment of some kind?"

"Not at all, Professor," Potter answered mildly and turned around to him, that serene smile still residing on his face. "I lived in there."

"You… what?"

"I lived in there. Until my eleventh birthday. Then I was given Dudley's second bedroom. It was high time, for I was already growing too big for the cupboard at that time."

"They let you live in a cupboard and broke your bones without a second thought, preferring that fat boy over you," Snape summarized in a voice of stone.

Potter just cocked an eyebrow in question, as if he couldn't see the point of Snape's words at all. "Yes," He simply agreed and turned back to the photos.

"They considered you a burden to them, and nothing more."

"Quite so, Professor."

"But Albus must have known about this," Snape protested, trying to ignore the growing necessity to re-think his beliefs about Potter´s life. „There´s no way no one would have noticed broken bones and black eyes when you came to school."

„Oh, but it wasn´t always like this Professor," Potter commented in a tone fit to discuss the giant wars. „Normally, they took good care not to leave anything visible. And when Dudley smashed me into a wall – well, boys play, and they get overenthusiastic from time to time. And most times, they simply ignored me. You will see some of that soon, I believe."

Silently, Snape glared at him in irritated confusion until the mists of the pensieve engulfed them once more.

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Review? Please? Pretty please?


	7. The Darkness of the Cupboard

A/N

Rejoice, dear readers! I must admit that I was absolutely overwhelmed by your response to this story, and the only way I could handle it was by writing this chapter much earlier than I had planned.

So this is a "thank you" to everybody who sent me a review and encouraged me, and especially to Aspen in the Sunlight, who recommended in her livejournal (You have no idea just how much that flattered me!)

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**The Darkness of the Cupboard **

When the mists cleared again, they found themselves sitting in complete darkness.

"Do I even want to know what is going on here, Potter?" Snape asked, trying to find back to his old, sarcastic tone.

He was still seriously ruffled, and the anger he felt towards Dursley surprised even himself. Despite all the rumours that had echoed through Hogwarts' corridors over the years, Snape didn't enjoy torturing children, though with Potter, it had come quite close.

"That depends on how much you hate me, Professor," Potter answered from the darkness to the left. "Besides, I don't really know what is going on at the moment, either."

Snape snorted in frustration. Having to watch an outbreak of violence like that made him feel itchy and reminded him of his Death Eater days, when the necessity of keeping his cover had rendered him silent and helpless. And to have that sphinx Potter besides him, who seemed to consider this all some sort of twisted joke…

"Come now, Potter, there can't be that many extreme experiences in your life connected to darkness."

Snape could hear the answering smile, and he would have sworn in that moment that he saw Potter's white teeth shining in the darkness. "You would be surprised," The brat answered, leaving his former Professor to curse him in silence.

That silence however was not as quiet as Snape had thought before. A strange, rhythmic sound filled the darkness, and it took him a moment to realize that this wheezing, panting sound was someone's breathing. Not Potter's, who was still sitting mutely by his side, probably reminiscencing about his wonderful childhood.

It was a horrible sound, barely human, more likely produced by an animal of some sort, and Snape took out his wand quickly.

"Lumos," He whispered, convinced that seeing the source of the breathing was better than listening to it in the darkness. But he had been wrong.

The blue-white light that spread from his wand's tip illuminated an impossibly small room, filled with boxes and dusty blankets except for a small, cramped space where a tiny boy lay curled together, wide open eyes staring into the darkness, panting in fear.

"Ah, now I know! We're inside the cupboard," The older Potter said. "I believe small spaces are enlarged magically when you visit them in a pensieve?" He didn't wait for Snape to answer, but leaned forward to get a good view of his counterpart's face and murmured, "Yes. Though it's strange to see it from this perspective…"

Snape didn't think that "strange" was the adequate word for what he was witnessing. "Horrible" for example seemed much more fitting to him.

"What exactly is going on here, Potter," He demanded, rather proud that his voice was nothing but his usual, cold sneer.

"It's Christmas, Professor," Potter explained, sounding rather like a fairy tale narrator than the older counterpart of this terrified, skinny boy.

"Or rather it was Christmas five days ago, when the Dursleys left me in my cupboard with only a bottle of water, five old biscuits and a bucket, and drove off to visit aunt Marge, not telling me when they would return. You see, Mrs Figg was in hospital and rather than cancel their holiday, they decided to put me someplace safe."

"You've been in here for five days?"

"Yes," No anger, no fear, no suffering in this voice.

Snape was nonplussed. He remembered the flimsy little cupboard door from just a moment ago, though, judging from the younger Potter's appearance, half a year had gone by in the child's life, and the thin material didn't deserve the name wood. Was there some masochistic edge to all this? "Why didn't you leave the cupboard?"

Potter just stared at him as if he had proposed to go dancing with a Hippogriff.

"The door is locked," He answered, expressionless.

"Oh, don't be daft, Potter! I've seen that door from the outside during your last memory. Even a six year old could kick it open!"

Astonishment clouded Harry's eyes for a moment, until it was replaced by understanding and he grinned rather sheepishly. "I'm sorry Professor, you're right of course," He admitted ruefully. "I forgot that the new door and the additional locks were only installed after the last memory. The door is now fairly heavy, and impossible to open by a child from inside."

Snape stared at him in consternation. "They replaced the door?" He asked.

Potter just nodded and returned his attention to his younger self curled up besides them. "Some strange things happened around me. People unknown to us greeted us in the streets, something happened I had dearly wished for. Of course I didn't understand the meaning of all that, but the Dursleys did, and it got them nervous."

"So they locked you into a prison?"

Potter snorted. "You should have seen my room when I returned from Hogwarts first. There were bars on the window," He shrugged. "But well, at least I had a window. Nothing to complain about, really."

"Right," Snape didn't sound convinced, and he wasn't. Whatever had happened to Potter, his saintly attitude drove him mad. Even Albus' blind optimism made him aggressive sometimes, and this calm acceptance of all and everything was much worse.

_But it's not my job to judge his life_, he reminded himself, _I don't have to cure his mind, I only have to heal his soul and then I can go home, never to be bothered by Potter again._

This thought gave him the inner strength not to strangle Saint Potter sitting besides him.

"So what is going to happen?" He asked instead, his eyes fixed on the terrified little creature that barely looked human anymore.

"My first real bit of accidental magic," Potter answered, his eyes shining in the dark. "Actually, I'm quite surprised this memory showed up at all – it was such a great feeling…"

"Well, you're not looking so great now," Snape commented with another look over to the small boy in the nest of blankets.

As he watched, Potter-the-child seemed to reach a conclusion. He forced himself upwards, swaying slightly on his knees, and again, Snape noticed with a start how terribly thin the boy was, his hands spidery, his shoulders and arms bony like some Halloween illustration.

His eyes were half closed, but even in the blue-white light of Snape's wand they looked deadened, like they eyes of someone who had seen too much already. And had given up.

"In fact I'd say you look barely human anymore."

But Potter just shrugged. "I've had worse," He stated, completely devoid of feeling as he watched his younger self half crawl, half drag himself towards the cupboard door, whimpering sounds escaping his clenched lips.

Something inside the Potions Master snapped. Although it was an altogether irrational thought (and something Snape would never have admitted to openly), to his mind, this child deserved some compassion, some acceptance of what it went through. A suffering child couldn't be shrugged away, not even by his older self, and suddenly he wished the younger Potter would return. Whining and complaining and straining for his nerves he had been, without doubt, but at least he had been human, not like this bunch of wisdoms and spiritual calmness by his side.

"I've had quite enough of this attitude, Potter," He snarled. "You don't have to proof to me how brave and calm and mellowed you are every single minute. This is child abuse, and it is simply obscene to take it so lightly. Clearly, you are even more of a harebrained simpleton than I thought previously.

Suddenly, for the fist time since they had reached Potter's house, the man cast a spell, a simple Lumos. Wandless, Snape couldn't help noticing, and it irritated him to no end. The magical light – slightly warmer than the one Snape's wand produced, illuminated Potter's astonished and slightly worried face.

"But what do you want me to do?" He asked, confusion evident in his voice. "Do you want me to scream and rage about how life isn't fair like I did when I an adolescent idiot? Life _isn't_ fair, we both know that it is anything but. Why should I waste our time and energy with fighting against things that have happened? What's done is done."

"Stop treating these things as if they were the most normal thing in the world, Potter," Snape barked, only to be answered with another shrug.

"But to me they are," the younger man just said, producing in Snape the acute wish to strangle his neck. "Isn't that how we deal with our lives? Accept the things fate dealt us, develop ways to cope and move on. I mean, look at yourself, Professor."

"I have never been a walking book of calm, Potter," Snape growled

"No, but you're biting people's heads off whenever your stress reaches a certain level. We all survive in our very own way, Professor."

Snape opened his mouth to utter another caustic remark, then snapped it shut again. The hell he was going to proof Potter's mad psychology. If the man believed in his own twisted way of life, who was he to stop it?

"Besides," Potter added after a moment of profound silence. "Shouldn't you be glad about it, Professor? I mean, we have little time as it is, and with me digesting my whole traumatic childhood or something like that, we wouldn't get to anything. Plus I can't imagine you'd like me to sob your robes wet over something that has no consequence whatsoever for our task."

Snape took one sharp, angry breath, then snapped his mouth shut again. He hated it when other people were right, and the idea of a Potter being right he hated even more. Instead of continuing this fruitless discussion, he concentrated once more on the boy, who had by now nearly reached the cupboard door.

He watched as the boy raised one trembling fist and hesitatingly, his eyes wide open with fear, knocked against the solid wood of the door. Snape had seen enough of the Dursleys already to know how much courage this simple action must cost the boy, for surely, the punishment for disturbing them in their domestic harmony would have to be severe.

No wonder it had taken the boy five days to become desperate enough for this simple act, but of course it was useless, for even as the knocking sounded muffled in the darkness of the cupboard, the boy buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

It took Snape a moment to realize that Potter-the-child was crying, being used to the shrill or loud wails of children who demanded consolation. This, however, was no exaggerated suffering designed to draw attention. Potter knew that no one would come to him, that there was no one who would hear his pain or care about it.

This crying was meant to be secret, and when the boy raised his head again, there were no tears wetting his face, whether because of Potter severe state of malnutrition and dehydration, or because Potter had stopped crying a long time ago Snape didn't know, but still the dry heaving sobs tore at Snape's heart.

He didn't turn around to Potter-the-man, for he wasn't keen on seeing his emotionless, disinterested face in this moment. Instead, he watched as the boy rocked himself in sorrow and despair for what seemed like an eternity.

Then, he visibly pulled himself together and spoke for the first time since the memory had begun. His voice was hoarse and raspy, but clearly understandable.

"No use," He whispered. "They are away. How stupid of me. But what to do? What to do?"

Silence followed that half-whispered question. Snape thought he heard Potter-the-man murmur something about his rather limited capability of reasoning, but he preferred to ignore it and concentrated on the boy instead, who was now speaking to the door as if it could hear him, as if it could somehow transport his words to the unforgiving family far away.

"Why did you leave me in here," He cried. "Let me out! Let me out!"

Anger rose in him, and again he raised his fist, but now his knocking was stronger and defiant.

"They left me here to die," He suddenly whispered in a voice of cold conviction. "They want me gone and think this is the best way. But you won't finish me! I will not die as easily as my parents!"

"They told me my parents were unemployed and alcoholics. Until Hagrid came, I thought they had died in a car crash, my father too drunk to drive the car," Potter explained calmly.

Snape's eyes lingered on the flushed, angry face of the little boy, but still he nearly jumped when the boy suddenly pressed his flat palm against the wood of the cupboard door.

"Open," He said, in the same cold and determined voice his older self had used in the headmaster's office when he had commanded Hogwarts itself to bend to his will and had succeeded.

And like the last time Snape had seen him do it, magic triumphed over matter.

Snape had expected a blast of some sort, an explosion like it happened so often in wizarding households when children lost the grip on their emotions, but nothing of that sort occurred.

Instead, with a simple click, the lock of the cupboard gave way and the door opened.

From hindsight, it was difficult to say who was more startled, Potter-the-child, who was staring in amazement at the door that swung open silently, or Snape, who alternated his stare between the two Potters.

The fact of accidental magic itself didn't surprise him, though Potter was, indeed, quite young for it to happen, but what absolutely astonished him was the disciplined kind of magic that he had just witnessed.

Normally, accidental magic contained a great deal of blasting, exploding and other catastrophes. This magic however had been straight to the point. Potter had wanted out, and instead of blasting the door open, he had simply unlocked it. Snape had never seen accidental magic so controlled or coordinated before.

"Quite remarkable, isn't it," Potter said in a voice full of pride, and the only thing Snape could do was nod in silence as he watched Potter the child crawl out of the cupboard, joy and fear battle on his face.

"Let's follow him. The thing isn't over yet if I remember correctly," Potter said and crawled out behind his younger self, his movements graceful and swift, as if he hadn't just spent half an hour crouching on the floor of a tiny cupboard.

For the next half hour, they watched the boy tip-toe through the house as if it belonged to a strange family he had never met. He had climbed on a chair to reach for the tap and still his thirst, then rummaged the storage room for a packet of dry biscuits. Snape noticed how carefully and slowly the boy proceeded, and a sinking feeling in his stomach told him that Potter had, indeed, quite some expertise on the field of starving.

It happened just as the boy had relaxed enough to return into the corridor. He was obviously planning to return to his cupboard the moment he had re-stocked his provisions, and was cleaning it quite efficiently.

He was in the bathroom, emptying and cleaning the stinking bucket, Snape still watching him intently and Potter once again at his favourite place on the staircase, when they heard a car pull into the driveway.

The boy froze. Snape had seen him frightened before, but it was nothing compared to the absolute panic that filled his green eyes now. Still, he lost nothing of his efficiency. In bare seconds he had cleaned the bathroom of his traces and was racing back towards the cupboard, bucket in hand, clearly intending to lock himself in again before the Dursleys entered the house.

He very nearly made it.

"Boy!" Vernon Dursley shouted, his face even redder and uglier than in the last memory, and grabbed the child that was trying to dive into his cupboard.

"What have you done? How have you opened that door, you little freak?"

"It just opened, Uncle Vernon," Potter gasped. "I was afraid! I thought you had forgotten me!"

"I would just love to forget all about you, boy," Vernon growled, shaking the child wildly. "But you can't even behave for a week! Instead of thanking us for our care and graciousness, you destroy our property and sneak all over the house! But I'll teach you a lesson, boy. This time you'll understand the necessity to behave!"

His hand still gripping the child's arm like a vice, Dursley turned back to the open front door and his family that waited outside, not sure whether to enter.

"Take Dudley for a walk, Petunia," Dursley told his wife. "There's some cleaning up to do."

Petunia Dursley just nodded and turned to leave, but with a strength Snape would never have expected inside that thin body, Potter tore himself away from his uncle.

"Aunt Petunia, no!" He screamed in anguish. "Please don't leave me! I'll be good! It wasn't my fault!"

But all she sent her nephew before the front door closed between them was a long look, full of hatred and disgust, and Potter slumped in defeat.

"Not your fault?" Vernon asked now, slowly descending on the meagre boy, his eyes glittering with malice. "Whose fault was it then, freak. My fault? Do you want to blame me for your abnormality? Look at you! No wonder nobody loves you! I'll show you whose fault all this is!"

What followed was one of the most severe beatings Snape had ever witnessed.

Finally, when the boy had even given up defeating himself, his hands flailing helplessly in the rhythm of his uncle's cruelty, Dursley hoisted him up and threw him back into the cupboard, the hated prison he had fought so desperately to escape.

"Rot in there, boy!" Vernon shouted through the air flap. "If I have any say, you will spend the rest of your life inside that cupboard!"

The last thing Snape heard and saw before the mists took him away from this place of horror were the panting of a boy in mortal terror and the dry, unmoved eyes of a young man who looked upon his past without pity or sorrow, as if it belonged to someone else.

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"They locked you in there again?" Snape asked, earning nothing but an inattentive nod from Potter.

Since they had left the pensieve after watching the two memories, Snape had been monosyllabic at best, his mind still pondering over the things he had seen and learned over the last hours. Potter had proposed lunch, and Snape had agreed off-handedly. Only when he noticed the other man pulling out pans and pots did he realize that Potter really intended to cook for him.

After the scenes he had witnessed this morning it made him feel somewhat uneasy.

"Don't worry," Potter said as if he had read his thoughts, though Snape's mental shields were firmly in place and Potter hadn't even turned towards him. "I actually love to cook. It's one of the good things the Dursleys taught me. Cooking, minding the house – Hogwarts is rather lacking in that respect."

And again the brat was defending the very people who had tortured him as a child. Snape wondered what exactly was wrong with the him.

It was like that muggle children book he had read a long time ago, the one where a toad – or was it a crocodile? – led a girl through a hole into a whole different world, inhabited by mad hatters, talking caterpillars and raving queens, and in which all the concepts of normalcy were turned upside down in a heartbeat.

It was only a question of time until Snape himself would go mad or strangle the boy with frustration.

"Potter," He tried again. "They locked you into a cupboard for five days. When you broke out of it, they beat you up brutally and locked you in there again."

"Yes," Obviously unchallenged by the whole conversation, Potter had turned back to the risotto he was preparing.

"For how long."

"Three weeks, but I got food and was allowed to go to the bathroom twice a day, so it wasn't that bad," Potter answered, still concentrating on the rice, and then, after a short break, added:

"Actually, I started liking that cupboard somewhere along the way. It was dark and a bit stuffy, but it was safe. No one ever hurt me in there, or wanted me to be someone I wasn't. When it all got too much, later, in Hogwarts, I used to close my eyes and imagine I was back in my cupboard, and I would feel better immediately."

"Well, if you had applied that cupboard image to your Occluding skills, you might have learned something instead of just wallowing in self pity. But after all my years at Hogwarts, I have yet to experience a student that translates experience into useful action," Snape sneered, only belatedly noticing how harsh his words had sounded.

Why was it that Potters were always bringing out the worst in him, he wondered. With anybody else, he probably would have apologized for this tactless remark, but with Potter, it was out of the question. _See how he reacts_, he thought angrily. _Perhaps it finally cracks his shell of serenity._

"You know, that's the thing I always liked you for, Professor," Potter commented, seemingly out of nowhere. "At least, after I stopped hating you for it," He conceded.

Snape expected him to continue, but he boy remained silent.

"What," He finally asked, sighing in resignation. "For my eloquence in the field of insults?"

Potter chuckled and Snape had to suppress a growl, but at least he answered the question.

"No. For your absolute truthfulness concerning me. You didn't think much of me, in fact, your opinion couldn't have been worse. But at least you never considered me as someone special, as a hero you looked up to, or as someone you expected to save the wizarding world. All that sudden attention and admiration drove me crazy, when all I wanted to be was, for once, normal."

"Don't give me that sentimental nonsense, Potter," Snape barked. "I know you loved the attention, or you would have stayed away from it. Your father did, too, and that mutt, Black."

To his surprise, Potter started laughing, an open, full laugh that was filled with honest amusement.

"You see, that's what I meant. Always finding the sore point, always hammering it in. If it had been just you teaching me, without all the fuss and the emotions and people that believed I had to enjoy my childhood, I might have learned enough to survive, and to stop all those people from dying."

For a moment, his voice changed, his face suddenly taking on the haggard look of an old man who had seen and done too much. But then he sighed, and it was as if the strange transformation had never happened.

"But it's no use thinking about the past or worrying about spilt milk," He added lightly, the tranquil smile in place as if it had never disappeared.

"You're absolutely mad, Potter."

"I know Professor," The young man answered happily. "But that's a main qualification for defending the world against dark wizards, isn't it?"

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Hate it? Love it? Review!

Next chapter will introduce Shadow to this story, plus yet another fit and some shocking revelations about Harry's past...


	8. Meeting Shadow

Right! Shadow's here, and I really hope you like him as much as I do. Same procedure as with Ayda – tell me what you think and I will decide how much he shall reappear.

Now a word to one of your questions, or rather requests: I am not going to turn this into a sexual abuse story! Primarily because my interest isn't to heap more and more suffering on poor Harry's shoulders until he breaks. I am interested in how he dealt with his dark past, and how Snape is going to deal with it when he realizes all the things he didn't see (but you probably noticed that intention already). So no worries in that respect!

And thanks again for your wonderful reviews! I felt ten feet tall every time I checked my inbox (and that's not because I am actually ten feet tall, lol)! Keep them going, and I'll keep writing!

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**Meeting Shadow**

They finished their lunch in silence and returned to another set of Dursley memories, all of them as gruesome and confusing as the two they had already went through that morning.

Snape didn't try to produce a reaction in the other man any longer, concentrating instead on the boy whom he watched growing up and become more proficient in his dealing with loneliness, pain and fear than a boy not even ten should ever be.

Potter-the-child was surprisingly efficient in hiding things and managing on his own, and Snape no longer wondered about the boy's later uncanny ability to get into mischief. Not that he didn't think him a nuisance anymore, but some things about Potter that had itched him without end over the course of seven school years became quite logical and explainable in these hours of watching his memories.

All in all, when they stopped for the night they had managed six memories and Potter had grown to the age of nine.

"Another day of Dursleys, I think," Potter commented as they left the laboratory and took their tea in the kitchen once more, "And then we'll be starting with Hogwarts."

"Oh what joy," Snape muttered, hiding a yawn behind his raised hands.

He hadn't slept much the night before Potter's return and he hadn't slept at all last night.

"I'm sorry Professor, I didn't notice you were so tired."

Snape was hard pressed not to utter a scathing remark about how much exactly he cared about Potter's consideration, but suppressed it with great effort.

"I propose you just retire early then," Potter continued. "While I go and visit Shadow."

Snape hands came down from his face and onto the table hard in an instance.

"Definitely not, Potter," He said coldly. "You are not leaving my presence whatever the matter. You need someone by your side to watch the fits and help you out of them. And I will not risk the well-being of our world for your visiting old friends. Write him a letter or something, invite him for breakfast or whatever you do when you're feeling sociable, but you won't leave this house or digress from our work."

"I don't think Shadow's someone you'd want to invite for breakfast, Professor," Harry replied with real shock in his voice. "And he isn't a person for visiting friends anyway," He added. "In fact, I've never seen him leave his place without an escort of at least ten of his men, and I do think the house would be a bit crowded by them."

Snape cocked an eyebrow, curiosity about Potter's strange choice of friends once more gripping him.

"Then just write him a letter and tell him that you can't meet him at the moment, as your treatment is too important to be interrupted. He will have to understand that, I'm afraid."

Now the shock on Potter's face mingled with mirth as he obviously tried to imagine telling the strange Shadow a no.

"He wouldn't accept that, sir," Potter objected. "He'd probably think something was wrong and arrive here in full force, and I can assure you: You definitely don't want to experience that."

And yet again, the curiosity level in Snape rose another few degrees, but he wouldn't give Potter the satisfaction to ask when his questions hadn't been answered anytime before. To Snape's liking, Potter was already all too much dominating their conversations, and it wouldn't do to give him the upper hand with this Shadow-business.

But still, Snape reflected as his hands curled around a steaming cup of tea, if this Shadow was anything like Ayda, he would be well able to interrupt their work worse than a short visit would do. And he didn't want Potter's friends crowding this place, mistrusting Snape like Molly Weasley had done, and making his job even harder and more tedious.

"Visit him in the morning then," He proposed tiredly, mentally patting his shoulder for his good behaviour and will to compromise.

_There Albus_, he thought_, No one can ever accuse me of being unable to deal with Potters again._

But to his utter disgust, Potter didn't seem satisfied by this compromise at all. In fact, he looked outright amused at the idea.

"I'm afraid Shadow doesn't do mornings, Professor," He said. "We'll have to visit him tonight."

And though he had sworn himself this wouldn't happen, especially not twice a day, Snape's patience snapped.

"For God's sake Potter, who is this mysterious Shadow you are making such a fuss about? I have always thought your choice of Hogwarts friends ridiculous, but this curiosity shop you have assembled after you vanished is completely ludicrous!"

Sudden anger blazed in Potter's eyes at that, their colour quickly turning the pale green shade Snape remembered from the Dursley memories.

"Don't ever attempt to judge my friends, Professor," He snarled, his voice colder than ice and threatening in a way Snape could not fathom. "If you think mine lacking, keep in mind that you don't even have any friends."

_Seems I've finally struck a nerve there_, Snape thought with satisfaction, filing away the boy's sore point carefully for further use. This knowledge gave him the patience to give in to Potter's wish when he repeated his request after a few minutes of strained silence.

"Let's visit him, then," He conceded with a superior smirk. "But remember that we don't have all night for this."

They apparated to a little forest and Snape followed the light that glowed from Potter's palm along little paths amid the trees, until they reached a country lane, which led them through fields towards a building of impressive size.

"They have anti-apparition wards all around the place," Potter explained with a backwards look to his Professor. "They don't overly like wizards, I'm afraid."

"Is this a bunch of druids again, Potter?"

Instead of an answer, Potter pointed towards a sign attached to the front of the house, resembling the advertisements of old, traditional inns and pubs.

"See for yourself," He offered and directed the light from his palm towards the shining metal. Before the dark red background, a hooded and cloaked figure stood tall, under it was something written in a script Snape couldn't read. Unfortunately, he had encountered this style of writing often enough to know exactly what it meant.

Snape stood shock still, taking in the sign and its meaning.

"Vampires?" He breathed. "Are you out of your mind, Potter?"

"I think we already discussed the madness-part," Potter answered lightly. "Besides, they aren´t as bad as their reputation. And you aren´t forced to come with me, you know? It will only take a few hours…"

"Out of the question, Potter," Snape growled. "But I´m warning you – if you manage to get me turned, I will make it my personal aim in unlife to hunt you down and kill you."

"Fair deal," Potter grinned once more, and, without a moment´s hesitation, pushed open the door that led into the vampire inn.

Outwardly calm, his firm steps showing nothing of the acute dread that had seized him the moment he had realized where they were, Snape followed Potter into certain death.

_I have always expected to finally die for the cause_, he thought, mentally composing a letter to Albus, _But this is just ridiculous: Dear Albus, Unfortunately I have to retire from my teaching position as the bloody Boy Who Lived managed to get me turned on my second evening with him. Please forward all my possessions to Transylvania, where I will settle down to frighten idiotic peasants into oblivion._

Well, at least he would end his life knowing that Potter's stupidity had finally caught up with him, but somehow, that thought served little to lighten his mood.

With Potter's entrance, the room had fallen completely silent. Snape was able to remain hidden in the shadows by the door, at least for the time being, but he had no illusions about his chances against a vampire. Not to think about his chances against the seven or so dark creatures that were standing by the bar, their eyes fixed on Potter.

On Potter, who was walking directly towards them, an unreadable expression on his face.

He didn't get far. Before he had reached the middle of the room, a vampire stepped into his path, blood lust glinting in his eyes.

"Now, what have we here," He began the universal stupid sentence all bullies on earth seemed to know from their cradles onward. "A tiny little human walking into our lair. I am glad you came, human, for I was really…"

"I wouldn't finish that thought if I were you," Potter interrupted him calmly.

_He hasn't even drawn his wand yet, _Snape thought with rising astonishment_, I always said he had a death wish, but of course no one believed me!_

The vampire just leered at him, exposing canines that were all too sharp and long to Snape's liking.

"And why wouldn't I, human," He asked, moving yet nearer to Potter.

"Apart from the fact that your poor little brain would be hopelessly overwhelmed by such an attempt?" Potter mused aloud and Snape had to keep himself from banging his head against the wall. "Well, I guess because you don't want to be hurt, deary."

That said, Potter looked the inhumanly strong creature directly in the eyes and smiled brightly.

With a snarl, the vampire closed the distance between them, one clawlike hand raised for a strike, and Snape expected blood, torn flesh and panicked screams, vampires rushing in on their prey and shredding it to pieces.

But something wasn't quite right, he noticed after a moment of holding his breath. There was no blood at all, and the only sound was a rather anticlimactic, helpless whimper.

And it was coming from the vampire.

Instead of ending as a messy lump of flesh, Potter had somehow sidestepped the dark creature, not without aiming an elbow at his solar plexus (a technique that seemed to work even with the undead), and a knee at his groins. Before the vampire had even noticed that his prey was not, in fact, finished off by his strike, Potter stood behind him, his left hand at his opponents throat (Snape had no idea how this had come to pass, but he swore to watch it in slow motion the moment he returned to the pensieve), and was pulling the vampire gently towards the knife that had somehow appeared in his other hand, pointing at the poor creature's back.

The result was the rather pitiful display of a vampire dangling between two evils – a knife in his back and a hand at his throat, and Snape could practically watch how his poor little brain tried to catch up with this rather dramatic change of circumstances. _Where did my prey go, _the steadily reddening face seemed to ask, _And where did this fighter come from?_

Snape led out a sigh that sounded too relieved to his own liking, but he hadn't forgotten about the other vampires. Even if Potter had defeated one of them seemingly without doing anything, the other seven were enough to finish him quite easily.

But the other vampires were watching silently as their kinsman was being destroyed single-handedly by a human, their faces as expressionless as a glacier. Finally, one of them straightened, but instead of the furious attack Snape had expected, the blond man just sighed with irritation.

"Stop playing around and show him your sign, brother. He´s new."

"I noticed that," Potter commented coolly, and twisted the struggling vampire´s head around, still keeping hold of his throat. He re-sheathed his knife with a movement too quick to be followed by the eyes and exposed his own neck, brushing his hair. Snape could see a small, golden tattoo where the artery ran.

The incapacitated vampire made a sound that rather reminded Snape of a terrified first year, and went limp in Potter´s hand, who released him slowly. The vampire tore off, vanishing as fast as if he had seen the sun.

Not bothering to watch his retreat, Potter turned around and walked towards the light haired man who had addressed him as brother. Silently, they clasped hands and embraced shortly.

Then, the blond raised his head and called out to the darkened room.

"Harry has arrived, brothers! Pay him your respect."

And from the shadows they came, milling around Potter, flashing their teeth in welcoming smiles, patting his back or clasping hands. There had to be at least twenty of them, all moving with the dark, predatory grace so common to vampires, all strong enough to snap any human´s neck in a heartbeat. Treating Potter as one of their own.

Snape couldn´t help but gape openly at the display. He´d had his fair share of confrontations with vampires and knew even more about them. They had stood on Voldemort´s side during the war, fulfilling tasks so gruesome even the Death Eaters would shrink from them. They had bowed to the Dark Lord for reasons Snape had never managed to find out, but never had they treated a human as their equal.

And never, never had he seen such joy on their face, such acceptance. These vampires, Snape decided, were grossly out of character. And whenever something unbelievable like this happened, you could be sure Potter was behind it. It was all rather ludicrous.

Hidden in the shadows, Snape had been ignored by the vampires so far. But now that the first welcoming seemed to be over, one of them, an Asiatic looking woman in tight jeans and a leather top, fixed her eyes on him.

"Who's that stranger lurking in the shadows, Harry," She purred. "Finally got yourself a human slave?"

Snape bristled at the comment, but so did, he noticed to his surprise, Potter.

"That one hasn't been funny the first time, Makiko," He said reproachfully. The vampire woman even had the audacity to blush at the reprimand, Snape noticed in shock.

"Master Snape is my friend and healer. He should be as welcome among you as I am."

Of course he wasn't as welcome as Prince Vampire-charmer Potter, and Snape was quite happy about it, for he wasn't sure if he would have survived the close proximity to so many fangs, but they did make room for him, and a few even shook his hands, telling him how much they "appreciated that he cared for their Harry".

Their Harry? What had happened to the world he had known and loved, for goodness sake?

Finally, the room's inhabitants settled down again and someone produced two glasses and a bottle of very fine wine for their human guests. Potter had taken his place among the bar crowd as if he was at home here, and was sharing a conversation that reminded Snape worryingly of their meeting with Ayda – names and facts thrown around in an off-handed fashion that made abundantly clear just how well these vampires knew Potter. And how well he knew them.

"Shadow's furious, you know," The blond finally interrupted the stream of jokes and stories. "He didn't tell us why exactly, but whenever someone mentioned you during the last week, he snarled, kinda like when he offed that French clan leader some years ago. Did something to anger the Lord?"

Potter paled. And that got Snape really nervous.

"That bad?" He asked in a rather small voice. "I'd better see him directly, then."

"Do that," the blond nodded. "And come by more often. We missed you."

And again the handshaking, embracing and – in the case of some women – kissing started. Snape would have liked to scowl and offer some scathing remark, but it somehow didn't seem wise to him. Even if they seemed to like Potter, they were still vampires.

Thus it took them a rather long time to leave the bar through the back door that was guarded by two grotesquely huge, bulky vampires that punched Potter friendly in the shoulder and asked him when he would find the time to "spar with them again."

Behind the door lay a set of wooden stairs, which Potter ascended with Snape on his trail. On the first landing, Potter turned around to him, probably to explain the unexplainable thing that had happened just now, but Snape shook his head decisively.

"No Potter," He said wearily. "This time I'm sure I don't want to know."

Potter nodded. "Alright, Professor," He accepted, his voice slightly worried. "But please, behave respectfully around Shadow. He can be rather dangerous, you see."

Dangerous. Well. Good to know or he would have been unprepared, Snape thought numbly, following Potter up the stairs.

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A/N: Sorry, sorry, sorry – now you haven't met Shadow after all, but I bet you can imagine what kind of creature he is by now, no? It was stopping here or leaving you with the cruellest ever cliffhanger a page later…

I'll try to update asap, but it depends a bit on your reviews, dearies (smirks evilly and leans back to wait)!


	9. The Truth Will Out

A/N: 

Yes, I know how evil that cliffie was – bad author! Bad author! -, but the alternative would have been worse, believe me. To pay you back for your generous patience, this chapter is nearly twice as long!

Sorry about the two German words that sneaked their way in – I fixed them, but to those who don't want to read the chapter again, they meant that Harry brushed back his hair and exposed his artery, where the tattoo is situated.

A short reply to one review before we dive into the story: Someone criticized that I was „begging for reviews" instead of just finishing the story. I don't consider my asking for your opinion on the story „pathetic" or „bad taste". To me, it is important to know whether you like what I do and what you think about the direction this story is going. I'm sorry if some of you finds that disturbing, but I'm writing this for you as much as for myself, and everyone who is a writer himself knows how much reviews mean to us!

But enough rambling, on to the story!

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**The Truth Will Out**

They stopped in front of an ancient oak door, secured by so many wards and protective spells that Snape had to avoid his eyes from the magical blaze.

Slowly, his hand trembling slightly, Potter knocked.

Only instances later, the door was opened by a seemingly young man clad in black leather and silk.

"Harry," He greeted him quietly. "You finally came! He's been waiting for you since last Friday."

Potter gulped. Audibly.

"How bad is it?" He asked again and got only an answering shrug.

"Can't really say. Better just get it over with," Stepping away from the door, he raised his voice to a respectful tone. "My Lord, Harry has arrived."

That said, the vampire ushered them into the room, left and closed the door behind him, all a bit too eagerly to Snape's liking.

The moment the door closed behind them, Potter dropped to one knee and lowered his head, gesturing for Snape to follow in suit. _And this coming from the boy who defied the Dark Lord himself_, Snape thought. In all his unfortunately long years of acquaintance with Potter, he had never seen him show so much respect to anyone. _Guess I should be worried, now._

"My Lord," Potter announced in a small voice, not raising his head.

Something within the room moved towards them. Snape could here the rustling of clothes, and footsteps so soft that only the absolute silence around them made them noticeable.

"Harry Potter," A voice answered, a voice so expressionless and cold that Snape flinched against his will. So did Potter. Visibly.

"My Lord, I present to you Master Severus Snape, Potions Master and my former teacher. Professor Snape, I present to you Shadow, prince of all Vampires."

Snape felt his jaw drop open and was glad that his lowered face was hidden by his hair. Prince of all Vampires. Apart from the leader of the centaurs and the king of the merpeople the mightiest dark creature on earth. And Harry Potter had actually managed to piss him off. Great.

The silence grew until it became nearly unbearable to Snape, but the prince hadn't allowed them to rise, and Potter hadn't moved a muscle. _I would prefer a more comfortable position while I wait for my execution_, Snape thought, resisting the urge to raise his head and look at the mythical creature that still stood mutely before them.

"Why didn't you tell me," the cold voice finally whispered, and there was more then just fury in it.

_Never call a centaur horse, and never cross a vampire_, his old DADA teacher's saying darted through Snape's mind.

"You already know the answer to that question, my Lord," Potter answered quietly, his words holding nothing but respect.

"Yes. I think I do."

Snape readied himself for yet another of these long silences, when suddenly Potter was dragged up by two superhumanly strong arms. Without a thought, Snape had sprung up, too, his wand ready in his hand. But again, first impressions had been deceiving, for Potter was not under attack.

Instead, he was clasped in a tight embrace by someone who would have made Lucius Malfoy himself appear as shy and clumsy as Neville Longbottom.

Shadow was a tall vampire with a face as smooth as marble and hair black enough to make ravens blush in envy. His eyes were blue, as brilliant and intense as Potter's were green, but Potter's aura paled against that of Shadow.

His very being breathed power in a way Snape hadn't experienced even from Voldemort, his every cell stating calmly that he could kill you as easily as you might kill a beetle.

And he held onto Harry Potter as if the brat was his lifeline.

"Harry," He whispered now, finally releasing the young wizard from his death grip but not completely letting go of him. "No one drives me quite as mad as you do, I must say."

Potter grinned his well-known, sheepish grin, and breathed a sigh of relief. "But isn't that exactly the reason you love me, Shadow?"

"Only proves that I am mental," Shadow muttered, then smiled warmly and nodded his head towards a cabinet. "Whisky, I think?"

"Absolutely."

That decided, Shadow turned towards Snape, while Potter headed for the cabinet. The prince of vampires took in the standing Snape, his protectively raised wand, and the rather confused expression on his face, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Master Snape," He greeted him with a respectful nod of his head that served only to increase said confusion. "I have heard a lot about you and am honoured to finally meet you. Please, allow me to invite you to a drink."

_The Gods be thanked for my pureblood heritage_, Snape thought as he bowed noticeably deeper than Shadow had, every inch the leader of an ancient house. _At least I have a code of manners to hide behind_.

"My Lord Shadow," He announced, his voice as smooth and calm as silk. "The honour is all mine and your offer is accepted gladly."

Shadow smiled again, exposing white fangs, and offered him a luxurious armchair, into which Snape lowered himself gladly. He wasn't quite sure how much longer his legs might have carried him.

"So what exactly is going on, Harry," Shadow inquired finally, his head perched to the left in a gesture of concentrated listening. "All that Druid woman was able to tell me was something about certain and very painful death. I sincerely hope I misheard."

"I'm afraid you didn't," Potter answered in a small voice, but instead of continuing, he threw and encouraging glance at Snape.

"It's rather complicated, and Professor Snape here knows much more about it than I do."

And so Snape found himself, once again, in the position to explain Potter's illness to an interested layman.

"So it is not only you in mortal danger, but also the chance of Voldemort's resurrection," Shadow's silky voice murmured when Snape had finished. "Why is never anything easy with you, Harry?"

Potter shrugged. "Seems to be my destiny," He answered. "Wouldn't it be rather boring, otherwise?"

The expression in Shadow's face clearly stated that he didn't think this funny. Not. At. All.

"And you didn't deem this important enough to inform me?" He asked, his voice dangerously low again. "You didn't even consider that I might wish to know about your approaching death? That we vampires might possess information about treatments you _wizards_ have never dreamed of?"

Potter, who had clearly hoped to have evaded the catastrophe, looked worried again.

"I really wanted to visit you, Shadow," He protested. "But then I was stupid enough to go to Hogwarts, thinking I would die and all that sentimental stuff that is attached to it, and after Dumbledore forced me to undergo this treatment, there was no time at all!"

The vampire´s voice dropped to a cold whisper. "What do you mean, "forced you"?"

"It means that he was quite happy to die," Snape cut in coolly, ignoring Potter´s frantic gestures behind the vampire´s back. "Only the treatment seemed to anger him, and if it hadn´t been for the danger of Voldemort´s return, he would have refused it altogether. I will remain silent about his mental capacities."

Only when Shadow had whirled around, gripped Potter in much the same fashion as Potter had the new vampire down at the bar just a few minutes earlier, and pressed him against the wall did Snape reconsider the wisdom of this answer.

Obviously, Potter had been quite serious when he had warned him about Shadow.

"So you were ready to die again, were you?" The prince of vampires hissed, his hand clutching Potter's throat, and now Snape _knew_ where the young wizard had learned his death glare.

"That's the reason I didn't tell you, Shadow," Potter said calmly, not even trying to struggle against the power that held him. It would have been useless anyway. "I know that we disagree on this point, but you must allow me my own decisions!"

"Disagree," The vampire snarled and raised his hand, leaving Potter hanging helplessly in the air, still pressed against the white washed wall, and now Potter did struggle, though he might have told a mountain to move to the same avail. "I know you don´t care about this life of yours, Harry, but I do, and I won´t allow you to throw it away! Not after what you survived! I remember the state of your body after you freed me, I remember the nightmares that hunted you for years. And I remember that you conquered it all!"

"Stop it, Shadow," Potter suddenly shouted, and Snape thought he could detect a hint of fear in his voice. "This is not the way to discuss this!"

"Then how would you like to discuss it, Harry," Shadow was now shouting, too. "The way we discussed during the first months when we had to hide your own wand from you? Is this just another one of your harebrained suicide attempts?"

Still in the furious vampire´s grip, his feet dangling a foot above the ground, Potter had turned very still. His eyes had lost their focus, the green somehow dulled, and he had ceased to fight against the supernatural strength

"How dare you throw away your life only because you still feel guilty about your friends…"

Potter´s eyes glazed over and his features smoothed into an expression of utter peace. Then, his skin began to ripple and once more the sickly glow emanated from his body.

"Let him down!" Snape shouted, but the vampire seemed to be frozen in shock. Fascination and terror fought on his face as he watched Potter convulse, the tendrils of magic escaping his skin and whirling around him like silver mist.

"Hell and damnation, let him down this instant!"

Shadow´s hands, suddenly without strength, opened, and Potter fell to the floor, twitching and writhing, soft whimpers escaping his throat. Snape was down beside him in a heartbeat, grabbed his hair to lift his head and slapped the pale cheek as hard as he could.

"I could get used to that," He murmured as he watched the convulsions cease.

Slowly, Potter's eyes opened as a tiny moan escaped his lips.

"By the nine levels, Harry, what is happening to you?" Shadow asked, kneeling down besides the younger wizard, shock and worry in his face.

"I'm sorry, Shadow," Potter whispered. "I didn't want you to see that."

The vampire sighed in exasperation. "I am eight hundred years old, Harry. You don't have to protect me!"

The ghost of a grin darted over Potter's face. "It's an old… habit…" He croaked.

"I know. And you know how unwelcome it is with me. Here, let me help you…" With great care, he gathered the wizard into his arms, rose and carried him towards the back of the room, where he gently laid his charge down on a sofa.

"Sleep," He told him as he spread a blanket over his body. "I will entertain your Professor until you have rested sufficiently."

"I am no child, Shadow," Potter protested, but nonetheless closed his eyes and relaxed into the vampire's soft touch.

Shadow smirked, and something in that smirk told Snape that he was witnessing the repetition of a very old argument. "Ah, but to me you are, Harry. Sleep now."

And Potter slept.

Snape couldn't say that he was very happy about the changed circumstances. He was now alone in a room with the Prince of Vampires, who had just proven how unpredictable he was, and would probably be questioned closely about Potter's illness in a moment. That made him the proverbial bringer of bad news, and Snape did not want to know how Shadow dealt with this specific royal habit.

But instead of rounding in on Snape and demanding more information, Shadow remained by Potter's side, his eyes fixed on the sleeping figure.

"So he chose to return to your world, and again he must play the hero, despite his own will," Shadow whispered and sighed tiredly. "You do have to admire him, even if he drives me crazy with his attitude."

Snape snorted, so caught up in his anger with Potter that he forgot for a moment whom he was talking to. What was it with everyone falling in love with Potter and shedding their brains in the process?

"Some hero he is, indeed," He said mockingly.

Shadow turned around to him in surprise. "What do you mean? How can you not admire him?" He asked softly.

"Why should I admire someone who vanished just like that eight years ago, leaving us to do the dirty work out of some whim?" Snape asked, anger and bitterness turning his voice brittle with coldness. So many had died, so many had suffered…

"Potter had knowledge and abilities we would have needed greatly. This way, it took us another four years to end the terror, and countless people died, just because the Boy Who Lived decided to become a full time tourist," Snape snarled, not bothering to keep his voice down.

Instead of an answer, the vampire´s eyes widened in astonishment. "He never told you?"

"Told us what?" He snapped back. "He disappeared for eight years, how could he have told us anything?"

"But when he returned," The vampire whispered. "I can understand that he didn´t breathe a word to that meddlesome fool of a Headmaster, but I was so sure he would tell you…"

"I am barely an adequate confidant. The brat has always hated me."

Amusement flickered across the vampire´s face. "That a man can know so much and yet so little," He remarked cryptically.

Snape groaned. "No riddles please. They give me a headache. What is it that he should have told me?"

But again, the vampire didn´t answer, and remained silent at least for a minute. He frowned, as if pondering a difficult decision.

"I´m afraid Harry will hate me for this, but I believe you should know anyway," He finally said and Snape had to suppress an exasperated sigh, not doubting that some heart wrenching story about the poor boy currently unconscious would follow.

"I met Harry in Voldemort´s prison," Shadow began, his eyes again resting on the limp form bedded on the sofa. "Contrary to popular wizard belief, the vampires never followed Voldemort willingly. They only bowed to him because he had me, their king, under arrest."

Snape nodded thoughtfully. That certainly made sense. He had always wondered how Voldemort had managed to control the vampires, but he hadn't believed even Voldemort able of such a stunt. Holding the Prince himself for ransom? Again he remembered why exactly the Voldemort had nearly managed to rule the world.

"The Dark Lord had many prisoners while I was in his power," Shadow continued. "Wizards, muggles and magical creatures alike. They never lasted very long, so I wasn´t especially interested in the boy the Death Eaters placed inside the cell opposite to me. He looked too young and frail to withstand them for long."

He paused, his eyes directed towards a past Snape could not see or imagine. "But something was different about Harry, I noticed soon enough. He survived. And he fought them."

Tenderness and care filled the vampire´s eyes as they flickered over Potter´s body, and Snape decided to let his comment about Potter´s one big talent remain unsaid.

"I never found out exactly what they did to him in those months, for they would always take him up to Voldemort´s throne room, but there was less of him every time he returned. I never knew there was so much blood inside a wizard, and I have always considered myself an expert in this area," Shadow smirked.

"But still he fought against them. Until one evening, he didn´t return. Hours after they had taken him, a terrible scream echoed the halls, and the very walls of the Dark Fortress shook. The Death Eater who had guarded my cell abandoned his post in panic, and so did most of them. The Dark Lord was finally vanquished."

Snape's breath caught, for he knew what Shadow was talking about. He remembered that evening well, how they had met again, silenced by their growing frustration and despair. Potter had been gone for two months, and finally even the most optimistic of them had given up hope.

How Minerva had rushed into the room and cried out that Weasley and Granger were gone, along with Potter's invisibility cloak and one of the Order's emergency portkeys. How they had sent out search parties, all the time knowing that it was probably futile. And how, after hours of waiting, his Dark Mark had suddenly flamed an angry, painful red that had sent screaming waves of pain through his body, and had then… vanished.

He had stared in shock at the now unblemished skin of his left arm, oblivious to the world for a very long time, until yet another set of shouts and screams had raised him from his shock.

"Did he tell you what happened?", Snape asked, cursing the weakness that trembled in his voice.

Shadow just shook his head, still caught in the nightmares of his past.

"Never," He answered, his voice as low as Snape's. "I believe nobody ever found out about that last fight, apart from Potter, Voldemort and the victims of their confrontation. I only know that his friends somehow appeared on the scene and were killed. He never spoke of it."

Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger. Their dead bodies mutilated, battered and bruised, staining the read and gold carpet of the Headmaster's office. Their glassy eyes frozen in eternal fear. And pinned on Weasley's chest a note, a bloodstained, crinkled parchment with degrees of long- and latitude scribbled on them. And two, short sentences: "It is done. I am sorry."

"I had believed the boy dead, of course," Shadow still continued, either not noticing Snape's state of mind or not caring about it. "But Harry survived, if only barely. He opened my cell with a wand and told me to get away. Then he collapsed. Of course I took him with me, though he fought me and demanded to "die in peace"."

Snape nodded silently while another piece of the Potter-puzzle found its place. So that was where the Potter brat had vanished. They had stormed the fortress as soon as they had assembled an attack party, but had found nothing apart from a heap of ash near Voldemort's throne, a labyrinth of dungeons and a few Death Eaters, killed by an unknown force.

"So his condition was bad?"

Shadow nodded. "It took him more than a month to regain even a shadow of his old strength. But the moment he managed to use his wand again, he tried to kill himself. More than once, in fact. He seemed to believe that his use had ended, now that Voldemort had died. He seemed to welcome his own death."

Snape's own voice echoed in his mind as he recalled the months of Potter's training. _If it weren't for your task, Potter, and your duty to our world, I would enjoy the thought of such incompetence being crushed by the Dark Lord. But your use hasn't ended yet. Now get yourself together and concentrate!_

"We were only able to snap him out of it by placing yet another burden on his shoulders – the conflict between vampires and druids. That was how he met Ayda, and she helped him more than I could ever have. Though I still detest that irritating bully of a woman."

Snape snorted. "I couldn't agree more to that last part," He murmured, all the while pondering in his head the new information he had gained about that enigma called Potter.

His comment earned him a chuckle from Shadow. "You know, Master Snape," The vampire said. "I begin to understand what Harry liked about you. You will help him through this. I couldn't have chosen a better healer for our young hero here."

Again, Shadow's eyes rested on Potter's sleeping form, thus missing the nonplussed stare Snape directed at him. What did all these cryptic comments about Potter "liking" him mean? Perhaps it was some sort of dark conspiracy to drive him mad? If it was, they managed admirably.

"If you need any help or support," Shadow continued, turning back towards Snape. "Call to us, Master Snape, and every vampire in Britain will answer your call."

Too fast to let Snape even realize what he was doing, Shadow's hand shot forward and touched the man's throat. Where cold vampire skin met warm human one, a warm, golden feeling remained that filled Snape with a strange sense of safety.

"This is a vampire sign," Shadow explained, gesturing towards Snape's neck and then to a mirror above the fireplace. "It informs every vampire that you are under my direct protection. Only Harry's sign, a document of his adoption by my clan, is more potent among the vampires."

Turning towards the mirror, Snape could make out a tattoo quite similar to that on Potter's neck. _I take him to visit a friend for a few hours and end up with having commanding powers among the vampires of Great Britain. Perhaps Potter is a re-incarnated god of chaos?_ Snape thought with growing exasperation. _Well, at least I don't have to move to Transsylvania now. I can stay right here and have the same results!_

"I trust you to take care of Harry, Master Snape," Shadow said, probably noticing Snape's irritation.

"I am honoured, my Lord," Snape replied formally. And in a strange sense, he was. Vampire's were very protective of their own, and if his clan had really adopted Potter, the man was as much a vampire as one could be without the fangs.

"You should take him away before he wakes, Master Snape," Shadow remarked with yet another long look at Harry. "He will be terribly embarrassed if that happens in my presence. He detests his own weakness, and he detests the way I fuss about him. And we don't want me to get angry again, do we?" A feral grin, white fangs glittering in the light of candles, caused Snape for a moment to remember in whose presence he was.

_The Gods save us from that_, Snape agreed silently.

"I will keep your Lordship informed about his condition," Was all he said, however. He was not mad enough to comment openly on Shadow's mood swings.

But the vampire's grin, even darker and more dangerous than before, told him that Shadow had understood him perfectly.

"Do that," He answered. "And remember that I can find you, Master Snape. Wherever you are. And I will, if necessary."

This said, Shadow swept open the door to his room and gestured for Snape to leave, floating the unconscious Potter alongside him.

Snape was very proud that he could suppress his violent shudders until the door had closed behind him.

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A/N: I wonder what Harry has to say to all that when he wakes up again. You, too?


	10. Homewards

A/N: I'm glad to announce that Shadow has found my dear readers benevolence! He and Ayda won't become major players, though, they will only reappear now and then to add important knowledge about Harry.

Now, before you read the new chapter, a short question: How long do you want this to be? Should I keep it nice and short, with a possible prequel, or do you want a full scale epic tale?

Tell me! I'll try to oblige...

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**Homewards**

Snape floated Potter out of the vampire inn and beyond its gate before he lowered him to the earth and applied a quick _Enervate_.

"Come on, Potter, we have to leave," He commanded as the man groaned and slowly opened his eyes, but though Potter looked quite unable to move on his own, he complied silently and without hesitation, and once more Snape was surprised by the Gryffindor's resilience.

Killing Dark Lords and living with vampires probably did that to you, he mused quietly.

Snape led the way with a light glowing from his wand, expecting Potter to ask about Shadow and why they had left without a goodbye, but the young man kept his silence.

"What did you do while I was out?" Potter finally inquired as the inn vanished in the darkness behind them.

"I got myself one of these flashy tattoos," Snape grumbled, raising his hair to show the golden sign. "Your friends really are full of surprises, Potter."

Despite the tiredness that must weary his bones, Potter laughed one of his open, warm laughs that showed nothing of the hardships he had gone through.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," He protested mockingly.

"They are all mad, Potter. And they seem to suffer from the severe misconception that you respect me."

"But I do, Professor," The answer was as simple and sincere as most of Potter's statements these days, and probably as useless to question or doubt. Snape just raised an eyebrow, and Potter grinned at him, probably knowing exactly what his old Professor was thinking.

As impossible as it had become to read Potter, the man seemed to have no difficulty to see through other people's thoughts and feelings.

"That vampire seemed to be quite protective of you," Snape tried again to produce a reaction in the other man, but Potter just snorted.

"Shadow´s read to much Charles Dickens," He answered lightly. "The moment I even scratch my knee, he goes all Oliver Twist with me. Poor little boy that never had a real home, yada, yada. Vampires are terribly sentimental. That's why they overreact whenever they befriend a human. Our mortality frightens them."

"From what he told me, he had good reason to be frightened for you," Snape commented quietly, and had the satisfaction to see Potter falter in mid step.

"So he told you," The young man said calmly after nearly a minute's silence. "Well. I suppose you had a right to know it. I just don't like to talk about it."

Now it was Snape's time to snort. "I know the feeling," He told Potter, wondering at the same time what had gotten into him.

But instead of curious questions or snide remarks, Potter just nodded solemnly. "I know you do," He answered. "That was one of the reasons why I chose you instead of Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore would have understood you much better, Potter," Snape said calmly. "He is a Gryffindor, too, you know, and has much more patience with fools."

"You mean he prefers fools to those who think for themselves," Potter retorted, just as calmly. "Because they are easier prompted to do his bidding."

Snape frowned while they entered the forest and finally reached their disapparation point. There it was again, that slight tension in Potter's tone whenever Dumbledore was mentioned. Not enough to be called aggressiveness, but with Potter's general serenity, it was the equivalent of an emotional outburst.

Snape remembered Potter's behaviour towards the Headmaster now, during the first minutes of his return. He had seemed on his guard, slightly nervous, but also resigned, as if he looked on his Headmaster as something unavoidable, like a natural force of twinkliness and lemon drops.

And that strange comment about forgiving him…

"What is it with you and the Headmaster, Potter," Snape finally asked as they had apparated back into Potter's living room and Potter had moved into the kitchen to fix a pot of tea.

"You seemed all happiness and grandfather-son harmony while you were at Hogwarts."

"Only until I grew old enough to know better," Potter commented calmly from the kitchen, reappearing after a moment with a teapot in his left and two mugs in his right hand. "Which happened some time during my fifth year. Unfortunately, I was too Gryffindor to understand what was going on, and to react accordingly."

"Now don't tell me that Slytherin would have been the better choice for you, Potter," Snape mocked. Albus had told him about the Sorting Hat's words, probably in an attempt to improve the relationship between Potter and his Potions Master. The attempt had backfired rather spectacularly, and ended with an irate Head of Slytherin threatening the Hat with doom and damnation if he ever even considered a stunt like that again.

Afterwards, he had felt rather foolish. Threatening a hat. Now really.

"In some ways, it would have been, Professor," Harry answered thoughtfully, ignoring Snape's sarcastic tone as he chose to do so often these days. "In other ways, it would have been disastrous."

Snape nodded, shuddering in horror at the thought. "Some people would have died a premature and rather painful death," He commented at the thought of Malfoy and Potter sharing a dormitory. He chose to ignore the idea of himself having to console a teenage Potter.

"On the contrary, Professor," Harry smiled slightly and offered his former teacher a cup of tea. "Many people would have stayed alive. Including Voldemort, I fear. As a Slytherin, I would never have dreamed of committing all those idiocies that I miraculously survived. I would have stayed in the safety of my dormitory and waited for the right time to come. Which never would have happened, of course."

"Why not?"

But Potter just smiled silently and sipped his honey flavoured tea, and suddenly, Snape realized that the brat had actually managed to change the topic without him noticing anything. Talking of Slytherins, were they?

"You and the Headmaster, Potter," Snape reminded him and had the satisfaction to see the smile die somewhere between two sips of tea.

"I'm afraid it isn't my place to tell you."

"Oh really," Snape very nearly purred. "And here I thought _you_ were the expert on your life!"

Whatever reaction he had expected from Potter to that smug reminder, it wasn't the open, amused smile that lightened the other man's face in answer.

"That one goes to you, Professor," He chuckled and again, Snape could have slapped everything and anybody in reach.

"But I really think you should talk to Dumbledore about that," Potter continued, turning serious again. "It is in the past, and for him to tell."

"I will find out anyway from your memories, Potter," Snape reminded him. "And it would be easier if I had some information beforehand. That Dursley guesswork was not exactly to my liking."

"Of course. I expect it was a rather unpleasant experience, Professor," Potter agreed heartily as if it hadn't been much more unpleasant to live through all that and then experience a replay many years later. "But would you have believed me if I had told you about it beforehand?"

Potter's question was met by silence. No, Snape wouldn't have believed a word, preferring to think that the boy was just heartily spoiled and too used to exaggerations. But he certainly wasn't going to admit that to him.

"I mean," Potter continued, curling his hands around the warmth of his cup. "If I tell you now that Dumbledore withheld important information from me, you will argue that it was his good right to do so. If I complain that he didn't keep me and my friends save from danger, you would say that it was impossible to keep someone as intent on mischief as myself from anything I wanted to get my fingers on, and you would probably be right."

He smiled slightly, and Snape hastily hid his astonished expression behind another cup of tea.

"If I told you that Dumbledore was manipulative and willing to risk more than just _my _life, you would answer that it was impossible to reason with me, as I possessed the mental capacity of a rubber duck, and – apart from the know-it-all Granger, who had a book instead of a head – the rest of Gryffindor possessed not an inch of brain more.

"I then would conclude with the complaint that Dumbledore didn't prepare me sufficiently for the tasks he set me, you would finish the match with a reminder of my Occlumency lessons, which ended due to my own foolishness, and would lean back in satisfaction."

But the only one who leaned back in satisfaction was Potter, again smiling gently, while Snape occupied himself with seriously considering a surgical fixing of his jaw. It tended to drop dangerously often in the presence of Potter.

"You see, Professor," Said nuisance added pleasantly and refilled his tea cup. "The discussion would be rather fruitless, at least on such an abstract level, and again I'm refusing to tell you Dumbledore's secrets. Ask me anything you want, but not that."

Snape opened his mouth for a cascade of scathing comments, and closed it again. So Potter thought him that easy to see through? He had probably held mental discussions with him for years to be that good in imitating Snape.

Snape shuddered at the thought.

But the last remark had been a bit too smug, and who was he to let a good chance pass? Ask him anything he wanted, indeed.

"Why did you vanish like that after you defeated the Dark Lord?" Snape inquired in a mild tone, and Potter very nearly dropped the teapot.

Hah, that had got him right were it hurt, Snape glowered, but Potter's reaction wiped the satisfaction from his mind.

A shudder went through the man, and suddenly Snape expected another seizure. Snape cursed silently. What had he thought he was doing? This wasn't one of their merry shouting matches, but a patient-healer relationship, and he knew well enough not to agitate the brat!

Luckily, the symptoms disappeared as fast as they had come, and Potter resumed his usual calmness in a heartbeat. The only indication of his emotional state was the mug in his hands that trembled slightly in Potter's hard, nervous grip.

Snape hadn't expected a reply, but obviously, Potter had been serious about this "ask me any question" thing, and was getting ready to answer him. For a moment, Snape considered stopping him, worried that it might be too much, but then his curiosity took over.

"After… I killed him," Potter began slowly, averting his eyes, "I was… in quite a bad state. My magic was nearly spent and I knew I wouldn't have the strength for any further apparitions. The idea of returning to Hogwarts, of them fussing all over me, the press and the noise and the publicity… was quite revolting at the time."

He paused for a moment, and his eyes grew dark, not the pale colour of anger, but the green of moss still moist from the morning dew.

"I couldn't bear to tell everyone what had happened in that throne room, to myself, and to Hermione and Ron. And Shadow… He needed to get out before you all arrived. So I went down and freed him, not thinking much at all. I mean, who would expect the Prince of Vampires to take a mortal wizard with him and nurse him back to health? I didn't, certainly."

Snape silently pictured the imposing Shadow in his mind, carrying a protesting Potter in his arms, who complained loudly that this "wasn't fair" and "completely uncalled for", and had to suppress an amused snort.

If anybody had told him before tonight that he would ever pity the Prince of Vampires, he would have laughed. Now, he felt too deep a pity to express in words. Shadow had probably never realized what had hit him.

"But in hindsight," Potter continued, clearly returning to his former serenity. "It was the best thing I could have done. I would never have found the strength to leave for good if I had returned to Hogwarts that day, and though Shadow prevented my… primary plans for my future, he allowed me to build an entirely different one for myself, one that was better than the Boy Who Lived could have ever expected in the wizarding world."

"If this future is so perfect for you, Potter, why then are you so intent on dying?" Snape asked sceptically.

Potter just shrugged in that annoying way of his, ignoring all attempts of provocation. "My time has come, Professor," he answered simply. "I should have died so many times before, and I was forced to fight so many battles against my will, why shouldn't I decide to accept my fate and go in peace?"

"So this whole thing isn't what Shadow called a "suicide attempt", is it, Potter," Snape inquired carefully, hiding the worry that lay behind his words. His work was difficult enough as it was. He didn't need Potter to secretly counteract his efforts.

"Good God, Professor, of course not," Potter protested, this time with real shock in his voice. "Though you never believed me capable of it, I can indeed differentiate between my own wishes and the needs of the many. As long as my illness endangers other people, I will have it treated."

He smirked, as if suddenly an idea had entered his head. "Besides," He added. "I would never dare to cause you unnecessary work. For that I just respect you too much, Professor."

"Good to know you haven't lost your happy-Gryffindor approach to the world, Potter," Snape bit out in annoyance.

"Oh, but I did lose it, Professor," Potter answered seriously, his face a little sad as if he remembered a dead pet, not a bunch of suicide attempts. "For quite a few years, in fact. It's due to Shadow, Ayda and a few other people you do not know yet that I got it back."

Severus sighed, resignedly, doing his best not to think about the „yet" in Potter's words. If they were only a bit like his other friends, he hoped fervently to never meet hese „few other people", thank you very much.

„Well, at least I know now that you were not always so unbearably calm," He tried to stir them back to safer waters.

Potter chuckled. „I would take good care if I were you, Professor," He warned Snape. „You wouldn't wish to turn into an optimist!"

„With you around, Potter, I believe that is not an option available to me," Snape grumbled.

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A/N: Review? Pretty please?

Next chapter has Potter-the-child starting his first year at Hogwarts, and Severus writing a letter with unexpected results...


	11. The Golden Year

A/N:

I'm so sorry people! I will not even attempt to excuse for the delay of this chapter! But you can imagine that only something big, hairy and terrible (real life by name) could keep me away from Hogwarts so long...

Before we enter Hogwarts for the first time, a few short words to the AUness of this story:

Though I deviate from the canon storyline in more than one aspect, I've still tried to stick to it as much as possible. The Dursley's abuse certainly isn't in the books, but from the hints the first volume gives us, it very well could (at least to my mind). You will see that I'll mainly stick to the development of the books until OotP, from where on I will digress completely.

Feel free to tell me if you find something too ooc, or if there are specific scenes in the books you'd like to be replayed in the pensieve.

That said, I want to thank you all again for your feedback and wish you a wonderful new year. My deepest apologies again for the delay!

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**The Golden Year**

Another day of memories with the Dursleys dragged by, sporting several broken bones, bad cases of dehydration and internal injuries of an impressive scale. The wounds were so severe that they even led to a few hospital visits, which Potter-the-older brightly praised as chances to "get out and about".

He even insisted on explaining to Snape all the details of the various operations and medications he had gone through as a boy, and was quite surprised when Snape failed to be amused at the sight of a gastroscopy.

"I think it is a hilarious technique," He commented disappointedly, but Snape's eyes were fixed on the panicked face of Potter-the-child, frozen in endless pain, and he somehow failed to understand the joke.

By midday, Snape was back to his vicious, scowling self, and by mid-afternoon, he could have killed Potter for every smile and grin the other man produced.

At dinner time, however, they were finally finished.

"I distinctly remember this being the last time the Dursleys ever did something to me that would approach our parameters," Potter said after they had left the pensieve. "They put bars on my windows and gave me barely any food, but that was about the worst thing they did after Hagrid went to Diagon Alley with me."

"Rather surprising," Snape said and helped himself to another bowl of soup. Potter really was an excellent cook, though Snape would have never admitted it aloud. "I would have thought the idea of a wizard in their house would have made them even more aggressive."

"They were terribly afraid," Potter explained, absently crumbling a loaf of freshly baked bread. "And good reason they had. I still feel sorry about their deaths."

"Oh stop this foolishness, Potter," Snape growled, not willing to put up with another of Potter's saint-speeches. "What they did to you lost them the right to be considered human. They should have been punished years before."

"You judge them so easily, Professor," Potter said quietly. "And yet you live among people not very different from them."

"A wizard would never have done that to a child in his care," Snape protested angrily.

"People like the Dursleys are the purebloods of the muggle world," Potter answered calmly. "They have a concept of what is normal, and what is right, and everything that deviates from that concept is dangerous and bad. You may scorn that, but it isn't that different from people like Lucius Malfoy or Dolores Umbridge."

"First of all," Snape corrected him sharply. "I do not live among people like Lucius Malfoy or Dolores Umbridge. I do, in fact, go out of my way to avoid them. And second, I can't even begin to voice my disbelief that you are defending them after they wronged you so."

"They wronged me, yes of course, who could deny that – but how would you have felt if someone had placed a muggle on your doorstep, forcing you to care and educate and share your house with him? How much patience would you have had for someone who didn't grasp your way of life, who could never participate in it because his very nature forbade it? Who, in addition, was the living reminder of a bitter past?"

"Believe what you want, Potter," Snape sighed in resignation. "But whatever you say will not make me understand your relatives. I have no interest in adopting your harmony-attitude."

"I know Professor," Potter just smirked, as if he had proven a point, and when he continued, Snape realized that he just had, in a twisted sort of way. "I already said that the biting people's heads off is more like your approach, didn't I?"

By now, Snape knew better than to enter that path of conversation. He simply grumbled something about foolish Gryffindors and their stupid insistence on being right when they were, as always, wrong.

Then, he turned the topic towards something that would surely irk Potter.

"I still have difficulties to believe that Albus knew nothing of the situation with your relatives," He commented, silently thinking that "situation" was quite the understatement of the year. They had witnessed sixteen memories over the last two days, one more gruesome than the other, and while he was glad that they had gone through so much material already, he could have done without some of those experiences very well.

Potter sighed. "You're right of course. He knew – at least part of it. My first Hogwarts letter was addressed to the "cupboard under the stairs", which finally caused my relatives to give me my own room, though with only more locks on it than before."

"And surely you had long, cozy talks about your childhood over a cup of tea and some sweets," Snape sneered, thinking how Albus had never had the slightest inclination to call an abused Slytherin to his office for some consolation. "You being his Golden Boy and all."

"I can't say we did," Potter answered, staring into his soup as if he was trying to remember things. "In fact, we didn't talk that often, at least not about private things. Mostly it was about me facing off with Voldemort, or me breaking the rules again," He looked up to his former Professor who was rolling his eyes in silent frustration, and grinned. "Or about me being in some mess, like when I heard the basilisk in second year and thought I had gone mad, or when everybody believed I was an attention-seeking lunatic in fifth year. There never was much space for what you might call my "personal" problems, apart from being the Boy Who Lived, that is."

He shrugged. "But Dumbledore was and is a very busy man, and we mere mortals can't expect him to care about human troubles overly, can we?"

Snape's eyes narrowed in surprise. Had he detected a hint of sarcasm in the other man's words?

"He always gave the expression he knew every inch of you by heart, Potter," He remarked slyly.

"And he always gave the impression he knew everything you were doing and thinking, Professor," Potter countered, smiling. "Even he isn't always right, is he?"

"I will have to write to him this evening, Potter," Snape suddenly remarked, not absolutely sure why he was telling the nuisance so much. "He probably expected to hear from me long before this."

"I know," Potter nodded, his hands curling around his cup in search for some warmth. "Tell him whatever you deem necessary, Professor. I have complete trust in you."

Snape could barely suppress a growl of frustration. He had intended to do exactly that, unburdening all his annoyance about the last two days in a scathing letter that would leave the headmaster speechless. Albus would be more than shocked by the company his Golden Boy had chosen over the wizarding world.

But as Potter gazed up to him now with silent trust in his eyes, he found that he couldn't. Who was he to betray Potter's secrets to a man he obviously mistrusted deeply. _You are thinking about Albus here,_ Snape reminded himself, but it didn't change anything.

"That's why you'd never have made a decent Slytherin, Potter," he snarled, and Potter nodded happily in agreement.

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They rose early the next morning, with only the slightest red colouring the sky above the lonely cottage, and didn't linger over their breakfast.

Without a word, Snape placed a letter addressed to "Albus Dumbledore" besides Potter's plate. The envelope was open, and Snape made sure to take his time with preparing another pot of tea, standing with his back to Potter so that the younger man could satisfy his curiosity, but he heard nothing at all, not even the slightest rustling of parchment, and when he turned around again, he could see from the secret markings he had applied to the parchment that Potter hadn't touched the letter.

Damn the brat.

Well, he would be damned if he told him the content or showed it to him! Snape had spent more than an hour over this letter, not because he had had so much to write, but rather because it needed all his spy-abilities to fool the Headmaster.

He would be damned if he told Potter. Who was serenely concentrating on his toast as if there was nothing more important in the world. He would be damned…

"I only gave him a rough overview of your treatment, Potter. No details." _Damn! Damn the brat!_

Potter looked up to him, and smiled quickly, then returned his concentration on his toast.

"I had expected nothing less of you, Professor," He said quietly, and Snape spontaneously invented three new ways to kill a person with his morning toast.

They finished their meal silently and then moved into the laboratory without Snape having to coax the other man even once. In fact, Potter seemed strangely eager to enter his memories this morning.

Only when Snape had prepared the pensieve and Potter stepped forward immediately did Snape realize why. They would enter Hogwarts today. The one place Potter had considered home, the place he had wanted to see one last time before dying even though it meant meeting the Headmaster again.

As Snape followed Potter into his memories he hoped fiercely that he would be spared teary reminiscences about the Golden Boy's Golden Years. His memories of that time weren't overly good. And most of them concerned the Bloody Boy Who Lived.

They stepped out of the curling mists and onto a gigantic, living chessboard. Snape knew immediately where they were.

"Skipped the whole year for the climax, have we?" He commented lightly as he stepped towards a bishop and slowly rested his hand on the cool metal.

But Potter didn't answer. He had half crossed the board and was fixedly staring at something that Snape couldn't make out from his place besides the bishop. Sighing unnervedly, he stepped towards Potter, and into the battle.

The game of chess seemed to be near its closure, with only a few figures still moving. Most were limp, half broken shapes crumbled against the walls. But three figures differed wildly from the nondescript black and white – a small girl with bushy hair, a scrawny, black haired boy with eyes of a brilliant green and a redhead that was shouting instructions to the black chess figures.

He had been here, too, an eternity ago, helping the Headmaster activate the traps that would hopefully keep even the followers of Voldemort at bay, but he had never seen this chess board in action, and it impressed even him. Only stupid Gryffindors with the brains of an especially stupid beetle could even consider confronting this.

Turning to Potter, he started to voice his opinions on this matter, but the intensity in Potter's face, the aura of pure magic that whipped around him stopped him in his tracks. The younger man's eyes were fixed on his once companions with an expression so raw, so longing, that it left no room for words.

Of course.

For the first time in more then eight years, Potter was seeing the friends he had lost. The two parts of the Golden Trio that had died under mysterious circumstances, somewhere in the bowels of Voldemort's dark fortress, their bodies battered and mutilated, their mouths opened for silent screams.

And yet, here they were, so young and innocent, battling a chessboard with no knowledge of the horrors that were yet to await them, the suffering they would have to go through, just because they had become friends with this scrawny, malnourished child.

Later, Snape would convince him that his acute state of exhaustion had been the reason for his weakness, but in this moment, the Potions Master was actually close to consoling Potter. Fortunately, a heated debate between the young Gryffindors prevented him from embarrassing himself.

"That's chess!" The young Ron snapped at his friends. Snape could see the fear in his eyes, mingled with a determination to see this through. "You've got to make some sacrifices! I take one step forward and she'll take me – that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!"

Snape saw the older Potter stiffen at his young friend's words and wondered why. He himself was good enough a chess player to see that Weasley was absolutely right, and though the chess figures must have seemed huge to eleven year olds, it was quite clear from their perspective that no lasting harm would come to the red head.

"Sacrifices," Potter-the-man murmured, as he watched his younger face pale in shock. "That was all it was about, all the time, wasn't it, Dumbledore?"

"But – " Potter-the-boy was now protesting fiercely, but Ron waved his protest away.

"Do you want to stop Snape or not?" He asked roughly, and the Potions Master flinched in surprise as he heard his own name. He saw Potter cringe and blush ferociously, but his younger self didn't share this reserve. Nothing seemed to interest him but the danger his friend had created for himself.

"Ron – " He pleaded desperately.

"Look, if you don't hurry up, he'll already have the Stone!"

Without giving them time to protest further, Weasley called out for them to be ready, and stepped forward.

The White Queen descended on him, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Snape could hear a shrill scream from Granger, but his eyes remained fixed on the young Potter, searching for any signs of his magical desintegration. But though Potter-the-boy's face contorted in pain and helpless, mindless anger, he finished the chess game without a word.

And it was him who convinced Granger to move on instead of caring for their friends, him who left the room with just one last, lingering look back.

"That was the moment when I understood about leadership, and sacrifices," The older Potter told him quietly while moving over to his fallen friend. "And they thought they had understood, too."

He sighed, exhausted to the bone, and sank to his knees beside the unconscious body of his friend. Like white, excited ghosts, his fingers darted over Weasley's face, softly stroking his hair and smiling at the inevitable spot of dirt on the boy's nose.

"But they got it all wrong," He whispered.

Snape felt anger and aggression rising inside him. He had lost more people he had considered friends of the year than this boy could even imagine. First when he had turned to follow Voldemort, then again when he had chosen to betray all those that trusted him among the Death Eaters. And over the following years, on countless battlefields, they had died around him, again and again, until the only way to survive was to stop thinking about them, to stop caring.

And here was this man, with a past so bloody and painful it rivalled even the Potions Mastser's, allowing himself to mourn freely for his loss, accepting it with nothing but a soft layer of sorrow draped over the memories. If it hadn't been so completely un-Snapeish, Snape would have ranted about the unfairness of it all.

"Shouldn't we go on, Potter," He asked instead, his voice rough and cold. "Or we might miss how you catch me before I can steal the stone for my Master."

The wretched man blushed again, but met his eyes openly.

"Sorry about that, Sir," He said. "We were very wrong. But we were wrong about so many things. And I hadn't learned yet to mistrust appearances. Funny, isn't it? After ten years with the Dursleys I should have had understood that at least."

Snape found that he couldn't quite accept the apology openly, not quite, but the general willingness he found inside him surprised him nonetheless.

"Let's follow them. I want to see how Granger managed to solve my puzzle," He said instead, and saw that Potter smiled in relief, displaying once more his Slytherin subtlety.

"You might be surprised, Professor," He just answered, and together they crossed the next room that was filled with the stench and dirt of a slaughtered troll.

They entered Snape's trap just as Granger read out the last sentence of his logical puzzle. But instead of the confusion he had expected to see on her face, he was greeted by a dazzling smile.

Potter-the-boy seemed as confused as he was. He obviously hadn't understood a word of the riddle.

"_Brilliant_," The girl now said, relief shining in her eyes. "This isn't magic – it's logic – a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."

Snape couldn't help a small chuckle of appreciation escaping his throat. Potter turned away from Granger and looked at him questioningly.

"So that really was the reason you created this?" He asked. "I always wondered if Hermione was right."

"She was a clever girl, for a Gryffindor." Snape admitted, then returned his attention to the memory playing before them, as Potter-the-child spoke.

"But so will we, won't we?" He asked Granger, obviously not believing that anybody could solve this strange…. logic.

"Of course not," Granger answered in the bossy voice she hadn't lost until fifth year. "Everything we need is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison, two are wine; one will get us safely thought the black fire and one will get us back through the purple."

"But how do we know which to drink?"

"Give me a minute." And, to Snape's utter surprise, a minute was all she needed. She scanned the parchment critically, as if to memorize the important information, then she walked up and down between the bottles for a moment.

"Got it," She then said, and Snape felt his jaw dropping again. He had spent more than a day to design this! More than a day! "The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire – towards the stone."

As Granger explained the puzzle and Potter-the-boy convinced her to take the way back, Potter-the-man once again stepped forward, his eyes lingering tenderly on her face.

"That mind of hers was truly a precious thing," He whispered softly. "And I only started to appreciate it too late. Without her, I wouldn't have survived one single year."

As if she had heard his words, Granger's lips trembled and she suddenly dashed at the young Potter and threw her arms around him. The boy stiffened, squeaking an indignant "Hermione!" But his older counterpart simply stepped behind him and softly cupped her face with his callused, grown-up hands.

From their position behind the boy's back Snape could see that tears had formed in her eyes, but her voice was strong and clear as she spoke to the boy.

"Harry – you're a great wizard, you know."

"I'm not as good as you," Potter answered, obviously embarrassed, and she let go of him.

"Me!" She answered, contempt and insecurity colouring her words. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things – friendship and bravery and – oh Harry – be _careful!_"

Potter-the-boy nodded, and Granger downed her potion without a moment's hesitation.

"And to think that I believed all this nonsense about bravery and loyalty," Potter-the-man said quietly as he watched her retreat through the wall of flame. "I really thought that recklessness could be more valuable than knowledge," He turned around to Snape, sadly cocking an eyebrow. "I bet you never made that mistake, Professor," He said.

"No," Snape answered, his eyes, too, lingering on the brilliant girl he had come to respect during his years of teaching her. The brilliant girl that had never had a chance to prove her abilities in the real world.

And from somewhere, without his doing or willing, an answer rose to his lips. "I made the opposite mistake. I thought that knowledge was more valuable than loyalty or human warmth. I was wrong as well."

As he had on their way home from Shadow, Potter didn't comment this sudden confession. He just met Snape's eyes, silently, then, after a long moment, nodded.

"We should follow me," He told the older man. "Or we might miss how I find out you weren't the thief after all. You will love the dumbfounded look on my face."

Snape smirked, but it was a smirk threatening to become a smile, and he hastily averted his face.

"Definitely," He answered, and they followed the younger Potter to his first confrontation with the one he would finally slay after seven years of pain and fear.

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Like it? Hate it? Review!

Just to make it clear: I do not share Harry's view of the Dursley's behaviour! To my mind, abuse of children is not to be excused by whatever circumstances! It is one of the most vile things that happen in this world (add a three pages' rant about those monsters…).

And sorry about the abrupt ending, but I will need a lot of space for Voldemort's first appearance. Next update.


	12. Nothing Left But Hate

**A/N:** I know you might wish to kill me for this inexcusable delay, but keep in mind that if you do, I won't be here to finish the story for you! Have mercy on me! Bad writer's block, and I must admit that it were only your reviews that kept me going at all! So this chapter is dedicated to all you wonderful people who encouraged me to overcome the museless desert! I hope you like it! 

To mention something completely different: I have opened a forum for this story, where we can discuss plot, characters, the original books or whatever you wish to discuss. I will answer the questions posed in your reviews there, and you can feel free to ask me anything you want there – I promise that I will answer unless it gives the story away. Check it out!

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**Nothing left but hate**

Snape had known what would await them, but when he entered the final hiding place of the Philosopher's stone, a barren chamber dug out of Hogwart's grey stone foundations, he was surprised nonetheless.

After having prepared oneself for a confrontation with the Dark Lord himself, the small-shouldered figure of Quirrell was something of a disappointment. Even though he had shed his stuttering act of insecurity that Snape had doubted from the first moment of contact with this strange, unfortunate man.

Obviously, the young Potter shared his Potions Master's sentiments, for he gasped, a guttural sound that Snape could barely interpret as a monosyllabic pronoun.

Quirrell smiled. This way, he was nearly frightening, and the dark taint of Lord Voldemort, the silent melody that had used to lure Snape into following, filled the room like a poisonous siren's song.

And there was Potter, his face blackened from the dark fire he had crossed, his school robes torn from the wild hunt after the key, and his eyes blood shot from the worry about his friends.

So small, so weak.

Resisting the Dark Lord himself.

A week ago, Snape would have blamed his behaviour on Gryffindor stupidity, insisting that Potter had simply been too dumb to know what awaited him, too dumb to realize what this man stood for. Who he was.

But one look in the young boy's eyes was enough to convince Snape of the opposite. Potter was terribly aware who Quirrell was, terribly aware of how little chance he had to survive this confrontation.

And still, he was standing unmoved, letting his one chance to flee back through the fire pass. His eyes were fixed on Quirrell, the bringer of his judgment and death.

And still he found the courage to speak.

„But I thought – Snape," He stammered, and Snape rather felt than saw the older Potter blush by his side.

„Severus?" Quirrell laughed, cold and sharp. „Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would usspect p-p-poor st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Hadn't Snape been too distracted by the tainting presence of the Dark Lord, he would have been satisfied with that judgment. Much effort and thought had gone into his persona as „overgrown bat", after all. He caught another look of embarrassment from the elder Potter and one of dumbfounded surprise from his younger alter ego.

„But Snape tried to kill me!" Potter-the-boy protested, obviously not willing to accept a truth that so much differed from his own view of the past year.

„No, no, no. _I_ tried to kill you," Quirrell seemed to enjoy the whole thing tremendously and delivered a speech worthy of every mad overreacher in the book. Unfortunately, Potter seemed neither willing nor able to be impressed by all those efforts to murder him.

„Snape was trying to _save_ me?" He asked, and Potter-the-man chuckled.

„Rather slow to learn, I admit," He commented. „But in a way, you should be proud, Professor."

„No riddles tonight, Potter," Snape answered absently, and could have smacked himself on the forehead as he belatedly caught the rather bad pun his words contained. Potter only chuckled a little more.

„You should be proud because in a room filled with an evil DADA-teacher – my first one, I must stress -, the Philospher's Stone, The Mirror of Erised and Voldemort himself, I was only thinking about you."

„What an honour," Snape spat, and deliberately turned away from his patient to concentrate on the rather clichéd showdown that unfolded in front of them. Quirrell bragging around like a second rate bad guy from a muggle novel, and Potter asking questions as if the world depended on it.

"You could have concentrated on getting out instead of learning all about his private life, Potter," Snape sneered as he looked at the little boy who was already too tired to keep on his feet.

"I knew there was no way out. And I refused to leave the stone to him. So I tried to stall. Really, Professor, I am not _that_ stupid," Potter answered, clearly amused. "Look, I'm trying to keep him from concentrating on the mirror."

"And what a good job you did," Snape remarked as Quirrell chose that exact moment to turn around and study the Mirror of Erised with mounting desperation.

"I don't understand… is the Stone _nside_ the Mirror? Should I break it?"

"That's the Dark Side for you," Potter-the-man snorted. "If they don't understand something, they try to break it. If it doesn't break, they hex it. If still nothing happens, they try to kidnap someone who is a bit brighter than they are. No wonder Voldemort never managed to conquer the earth."

"Moving towards the mirror inch by inch and hoping that something might happen doesn't seem too clever, either," Snape just commented, for Potter-the-boy was attempting exactly that. And failing quite spectacularly, as the ropes around his ankles were too tight to let him move easily. Despite the severity of the situation, Snape couldn't help a dark chuckle when the boy slowly lost his balance and crashed to the ground like a badly positioned Christmas Tree.

"Well, it wasn't my grace and good manners that made me win every confrontation with him, was it?" Potter asked, but his lips, too, twitched at the sight of the fallen hero who tried to get back on his feet with a lot of badly organizing wriggling.

On Quirrell, however, the joke seemed to be lost. He was pacing in front of the mirror, his agitation heightening with every step.

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

With a sudden implosion of silence, as if all air and sound and happiness had been sucked from the stone chamber, the atmosphere in the room changed. Gone was the playful banter, and both men, Snape couldn't help noticing, seemed to straighten, as if readying themselves to meet their final adversary.

For from the darkness, a voice answered Quirrell's question, a voice that came from nowhere and everywhere, a pure echo that seemed to haunt stone and flame and chilled Snape to the bone.

"Use the boy… use the boy…"

"Yes – Potter – come here," If Quirrell felt the haunting effect of the voice, he didn't let on. The teacher simply clapped his hands once and the ropes binding the boy fell off. He got slowly to his feet.

Snape's eyes felt as if they were glued to the strange turban on Quirrell's head. He knew who was lurking under it. He had heard every detail of this story, and he knew what would happen. Never had he been so tempted to shed his perfect self control. He wanted to scream at the little boy, to order him away immediately, and yet he knew what would happen.

Watching the small, still too scrawny figure that was approaching the mirror, torn between the wish to protect and do what was right, and the urgent need to curl into a ball and hide from the world, Snape finally understood what Potter-the-man had meant back in the cupboard, when he had said, without the slightest emotion in his voice, that he had had worse.

But obviously, Potter-the-boy had decided to put on a stand, and after watching the mirror for a moment, while only a small widening of his eyes betrayed a sudden surprise, he started another attempt to get Quirrell on the wrong track.

"I see myself shaking hands with Dunbledore," He quite obviously invented. "I – I've won the House Cup for Gryffindor."

It seemed that Quirrell accepted this bad performance. "Get out of the way," He shouted, and once more positioned himself in front of the mirror.

Potter-the-boy walked away, his hand resting on his pocket

"It's obvious Quirrell hasn't been a teacher for long," Snape commented. "I would have caught that blatant lie immediately."

"So what you are saying is that Voldemort would have made an excellent teacher," Potter answered dryly. "For here he comes…"

He stopped when the high, eerie voice filled the room again. It came from Quirrell's direction, but the teacher's lips hadn't moved, and no living human being could have made such a sound.

"He lies… He lies…" The voice hissed, and slithered, and Snape shuddered in sudden revulsion.

The high voice spoke again.

"Let me speak to him… face to face…"

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough… for this…"

Like the boy, Snape felt that he couldn't move even if he had wanted to. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban, exposing a head that looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. Snape could see the shadows of the not-quite-human face of the reborn Voldemort, but this parasite, this monstrosity that was stitched on the body of another man, seemed even more revolting.

"Harry Potter," It whispered, satisfaction and hate turning his words into sweet poison.

"Entrance of the Supreme Evil Being, formally hidden in a turban," Potter commented dryly.

Potter-the-child's eyes darted from the circle of fire to the ghastly figure in front of him and back, clearly torn between his wish to flee and his inability to move, frozen in shock as he was.

"See what I have become?" The face said. "Mere shadow and vapour… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks… you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the Forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now…. Why don't you give me that stone in your pocket?"

Potter stumbled backwards, wild panic replacing the fascination in his eyes. But as the child retreated from this image of horror, his older counterpart moved forward slowly, until he had nearly reached the thing that had once been the most powerful evil wizard on earth.

„Oh, Tom, poor, stupid Tom," The older Potter whispered as he approached Quirrell's shivering form, and as he had done with his friends, he lifted a hand, stopping only inches away from the ghastly face. There was sadness in his voice and eyes, and a strange, implacable tenderness. „So much forgotten, so much lost. Nothing left but hate and anger to drive you into the wrong direction."

While Quirrell moved slowly towards the boy like a hunting animal of prey and the older Potter stood silent like a statue, his eyes fixed on his arch nemesis, Snape found that he could finally breathe again.

The one good thing about Potter, he thought, was that the irritation he caused usually overrode every other emotion in Snape.

„Potter," He shouted. „If you even consider justifying Voldemort like you did with your pathetic relatives, I will stun you and get you to a psychiatric ward!"

„Fair warning, Professor," Potter accepted with an amused smile. „And to put you at ease, not even I could be mad enough to justify him."

„You are wearing that forgiving look again, Potter," Snape warned him, irritation growing with every word. "Remember that you have every right to hate him."

"Don't be a fool, Potter" Snarled the face of Lord Voldemort, as if to stress Snape's words. "Better save your own life and join me… or you'll meet the same end as your parents… They died begging me for mercy…"

"Liar!" Potter-the-child shouted suddenly, and his anger seemed to give him new strength, for he stopped moving backwards and stood his ground against the approaching monster.

It seemed that the memory of his parents, or the outrage at Voldemort's desecration of their memory, was a strong enough power to make him resist even the Dark Lord, and only through this did Snape realize exactly how much the memory of his parents had meant to the young boy.

His older counterpart however didn't appear to have heard the words. His answer to Snape wasn't tainted by even a hint of emotion.

"But I did hate him, Professor. For so many years, he was the one thing I concentrated all my hate on. I knew I had to kill him, and I wanted it more than anything else in the world. And when he caught me, and kept me in his Fortress, my hate nearly consumed me.

"But then," He continued, his eyes fixed on the abomination that was the Dark Lord, on the slitted nose and the red, burning eyes. "Then I understood. Why it was me that had been bound to him. Why we were truly equals. And why I had a power he did not know of."

"You know, Professor, we were very much alike, Tom Ridde and I. Both grown up in a muggle world that hated and abused us. Both suddenly confronted with a world we couldn't understand. Both driven by the thirst to prove ourselves, to show everyone that we were worthy of being a wizard. Where I had Voldemort to hate and to blame for everything bad that happened in my life, Voldemort blamed the wizarding society. He blamed the muggles. He blamed the whole world. Where my hate was centred on one single being, his hate was all encompassing, all consuming. But we were both driven by hate."

He turned around to his younger self, who was staring at the monster before him with fearful loathing in his eyes.

"This mirror is a curious thing," He then murmured and turned around to the softly shimmering Mirror of Erised. "When I looked into it the first time, a few months before this memory occurred, I saw myself reunited with my parents. I found it again in my seventh year, hidden deep in the dungeons, but instead of happy futures for myself, all I could see in it was the slain body of Voldemort. He had become my past, my present and my future, as Tom Riddle will tell me in a year. He had swallowed me whole. Had become my white whale, and I tried to finish him without sense or knowledge when to stop. Until that one night, down in his dungeons."

Quirrell was walking backwards now towards Potter, so that Voldemort could keep his eyes fixed on the boy, and his words seemed as much a comment to the young boy's denial as to the man's explanation.

"How touching…" He hissed. "I always value bravery… Yes, boy, your parents were brave… I killed your father first and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died… she was trying to protect you… Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

"Never!" In a desperate attempt to escape, Potter-the-child sprang towards the flames that surrounded him, but Voldemort screamed, "Seize him!"

Potter-the-man's eyes followed his fleeing counterpart and Quirrell hot in pursuit, but Snape could see that he wasn't really concentrating on the scene. A muscle twitched near his mouth when the Professor grabbed the boy hard and cruelly, and he blinked once when Quirrell cried out in pain and let go of the boy.

"That was what the prophecy was talking about, you know?" He continued, watching Quirrell as he hunched over his hurt hand, whimpering in pain and watching his fingers, which were blistening before their very eyes. "_Neither can live while the other survives_… We would drive each other to death and ruin in our hate, one seeking to destroy in the other what had hurt and deformed him, one seeing his most lethal fear in the other's eye. There. You can see it in our faces – the hate, the desperation, the fear."

He pointed towards Voldemort's twisted face, his screaming, salivating mouth that even over Quirrell's howls of pain demanded the destruction of the boy that had been his downfall.

"Seize him! Seize him!"

Potter-the-boy's stare was alternating between Quirrell's wounds and his own hands, the cause of this destruction. There was disbelief in his eyes, and fear, but also a rising coldness, a determination, and the awakening knowledge of power, a power so great that it could destroy even the Dark Lord.

Quirrell's words were barely discernable as he pleaded for his life. "Mater, I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!"

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" Screeched Voldemort, and though he knew what must follow, Quirrell obeyed. He descended on the child, but instead of fleeing again, Potter reached up and pressed his bare hands on the teacher's face, the madness of fury in his eyes.

"And so it begins," Potter-the-man whispered as he watched Quirrell disintegrate under the hands of a child. "A fight that would lead us to his dungeons, to torture, pain and his final destruction."

He shook his head. "If only somebody had taught me. We could have ended it here and now. But instead of telling me everything, Dumbledore kept silent. Instead of preparing me, he tested my abilities secretly."

He turned away from the memory of his collapsing body and towards one of the huge columns that supported the room.

"See, Professor," He asked and pointed towards a shadowy figure hiding outside the circle of flame. "He is waiting to rescue me at the last second. Watching and assessing my abilities. Letting Voldemort flee. Again."

Once more, Snape felt his jaw drop as his eyes followed Potter's outstretched hand. There was the Headmaster, indeed, crouching by the column as if he prepared for a mighty jump. Waiting in the shadows while an eleven-year-old boy defeated Lord Voldemort. Again.

Only when Quirrell had disintegrated into dust, only when the spectre of Voldemort, his mouth gaping open in a soundless scream, had vanished from the chamber, did the old wizard walk forward quickly. He caught Potter before he could touch the ground.

"Perfect timing, as always," Potter commented and turned away from the Headmaster.

"But… How long has he been waiting there…" Snape whispered, shock turning his blood to ice water.

"I don't know," Potter answered tiredly. "A few minutes at the very least. I didn't notice him in the past, but I guess he saw most of my confrontation with Voldemort."

He sighed and a tiny shudder went through his body as if of remembered pain, but then he shrugged and the shadow seemed to fall from him.

"Shall we leave then, Professor? There is nothing else to see, and I need a good dinner."

Dumbfounded, his eyes still fixed on Dumbledore, Snape nodded slowly and let the mists of the pensieve carry him away from this place of terrible revelations.

It seemed that yet another part of his knowledge about the world had fallen away, and the ground on which he walked didn't seem so firm anymore.

xXx

**A/N:**

The term "Supreme Evil Being", or short SEB, originates from Jasper Fforde's ingenious "Thursday Next"-novels – go read them, they're fabulous!

The white whale is, of course, "Moby Dick", written by Herman Melville.

This was tremendously difficult to write (I hope it doesn't show…) so give me a treat by clicking on that little button down the left and review!


	13. The Sort of Leader

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! Click the link to my forums on my profile page, I have answered many of your questions there!

0o0

**The Sort of Leader**

Dinner that night was a quiet affair.

The moment they had returned to the lab, Snape had told Potter that it was enough for the day, that he should go and do whatever heroes in mortal peril did for the evening. They would meet again tomorrow at six o'clock.

"Yes, Professor," Potter had answered with an amused smile. "Dinner in about an hour?"

"I don't need dinner, Potter," Snape had grumbled, wanting to be nothing but alone and in peace. "And I don't want you to… Oh, go away!"

And away he went. When Snape crossed the living room to reach the stairs, he heard him bustling in the kitchen. A man with no more than two weeks left of his life, a man who had just re-met his greatest foe, and he was preparing dinner for his most hated Professor!

Though, for the looks at it, Snape had to compete with Dumbledore for this title.

_That_ thought really gave him the creeps.

But he couldn't chase the thought away while he took a shower and changed clothes in his room that was pleasant and well furnished, in a wild mixture of muggle and magic like the floor below.

Snape had to admit that he preferred his bathroom the muggle way. The talking mirrors had always made him aggressive.

But when he looked into the silent muggle equivalent, all he saw was a bearded figure, crouching behind a column, ready to enter the scene when the time was right.

"What were you waiting for, Albus," Snape whispered, touching the mirror with a slender, calloused hand. "And why didn't you tell me?"

For that was what had shocked him the most, down in the chamber of Potter's memories. He had discussed the events of that night with Albus for hours on end, had studied the information Dumbledore had extracted from Potter, had tired himself over the possible implications of Voldemort's reappearance and defeat.

And all the time, Albus had lied to him, telling him that he had rushed to Potter the moment he had reached the chamber, that all he had seen was a heap of dust and a vanishing spirit. And a collapsing Potter. Had lied to him.

It was on the stairs, on the way back to the living room, that Snape finally realized what had unhinged him so.

The balance had been disturbed. Badly.

Snape had always seen himself as a creature of shadows, a twilight man, standing between two worlds, that of the darkness and its master, Lord Voldemort, and that of the light and its wise, twinkling guardian, Albus Dumbledore.

Albus. The white.

But he wasn't so white anymore. Snape had always known that Albus was a powerful wizard, and willing to unleash these powers should it be necessary. He wasn't so naïve to believe that a wizard in Albus' position could do without manipulation, deception and pulling strings. But he had always thought that Albus was doing these things only hesitatingly, that he thought twice whether he lied to someone or controlled their lives from afar. That he would never sacrifice a person or cause harm when there was any, any other way at all.

Now it seemed that he had been wrong in that, quite spectacularly, just as he had been wrong in so many things.

Albus had chosen to wait in the shadows while the boy had suffered, he had let Potter fight against a foe too mighty to be vanquished by a mere child, and had lied about it afterwards, even to his most trusted companions. That Potter had survived, and had returned from the fight with more strength, was a lucky outcome, but it didn't change or justify Albus' behaviour.

Snape scowled, but it seemed that these thought were not banished as easily as noisy students. They clung to him, without mercy, tainting the very air he breathed.

If Albus Dumbledore himself had fallen into the shadows, where was he standing now? What was his role in a game so changed? Where did his loyalties lie, now that the original battle had ended and good and evil were mingling? What were his duties? And how to meet Albus again with this knowledge, how to look into his eyes and talk to him as if nothing had changed?

He heard Potter call that dinner was ready and crossed into the kitchen, only to be greeted by an assault of looks and smells that made his mouth water. Obviously, Potter had fixed his mind on curry this evening.

Next to his plate, he found a letter. _Albus_, He cursed inwardly. _Perfect timing again._

He took his place and opened the envelope, forcing himself to keep his self control, while Potter filled his plate with the Indian dish.

"Greetings from the Headmaster," He finally said and offered the open letter to Potter, who ignored it. Snape snorted, folded the parchment and put it on the table between them. "He wants us to come to Hogwarts tomorrow, to discuss your 'progress'."

Potter just shrugged. If he had noticed the sarcastic undertones of the last word, he chose to ignore it. "Fine with me, Professor. Perhaps at midday so that we can work on another memory before we leave? Second and third year should be quite tiring, so we might be glad to have part of the day off."

Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine with you," He whispered, then straightened himself and took his fork. "I seem to recall that you were quite hesitant last time you were confronted with Hogwarts," He said mildly and began to eat. The curry was excellent, and he nodded with appreciation. "Is there reasoning behind your changed attitude?"

"I had an idea that needs to be cross-checked," Potter answered. "And I have to say my goodbyes to some people. Last time I didn't have the chance to do it properly, but it must be done, and soon. I weaken, and I don't know how long I will have the strength to do more than the most necessary."

The offhanded way in which the man spoke of his state still unnerved Snape. For a moment, he wondered how Potter would have dealt with the advancing illness on his own, had not Snape been forced to come to the rescue, and, as it seemed to happen more often to him these days, he spoke before he could check himself.

"How did you plan to survive on your own originally, weak like that?"

Potter just shrugged. "Oh, I would have managed somehow. And Ayda checks for me every other week. She'd have probably helped me finishing this before it got too bad."

Snape went cold inside. "I really hope this doesn't mean what I think it does, Potter, or I won't let that druid woman near you ever again."

Potter grinned. "Careful Professor, or I could get the impression you are as protective towards me as Shadow. Hoping seems the better alternative to me."

Slowly, Snape let his fork sink to his plate. For the first time since they had entered the Firechamber in the pensieve today, he looked at Potter, or rather examined him critically.

Although his movements still seemed swift and elegant, there was a greyish tinge to his skin, and his eyes were bloodshot in a way that reminded Snape of drunkards or the very ill.

Potter was hiding it well, he realized, but he _was _weakening, and quickly. He was most likely in continual pain by now, and Snape would have been surprised if even the serene Potter slept well under the constant pressure of his worst memories.

Yet for all his obvious needs, Potter didn't rest. Instead, he prepared dinner or tidied the house. The muggle way, Snape understood, because he was probably worried that even the slightest use of magic would bring on another attack.

And his friends, or those he called his friends, weren't here with him. They had left him to the mercy of an unwilling old teacher, generally known for his sharp tongue. If Snape had any choice, he would certainly spent his last weeks a better way, and he seriously wondered for the first time why Potter hadn't chosen another place, and person, for dying. Or for living, now that he thought about this.

"I wonder why you are doing this to yourself, Potter."

"What, Professor?" The younger man had barely touched his meal, Snape saw, and raised his eyebrow in silent request. He was delighted when Potter took up his fork again, and, hesitatingly started eating again. It seemed that his teacher attitude was still good for something after all. If only for making the Man Who Would Die eat his dinner.

"Living alone, without anyone near you that knows about your true identity," He answered with short delay. "Without any nearer relationship, I couldn't help noticing."

"I have my friends," Potter answered simply. "They are quite enough for me."

Snape snorted. "A centuries-old vampire and a druidic hag. Not the sorts of friends people your age have, Potter. You are living alone, and from the lack of irate females storming your house, I don't believe that you have changed your habits much over the last month. Unless you have a tragic, unrequited love hidden away somewhere, of course. Why not live with the druids?"

"May I ask where exactly this interrogation is going, Professor?" Potter inquired mildly. "You didn't seem too interested in my private life before."

As if he was now, Snape snorted inwardly. But if the silence grew to heavy, the thoughts would return, and with them all the old, unanswered questions about his past and his future, those questions that had returned this afternoon with full force.

"I'm trying hard not to ask you about Dumbledore here, Potter," Snape confessed, wondering at the same time why the hell he had admitted that. "So indulge me, will you?"

Potter smiled understandingly, and it itched Snape to spit out some degrading remark, but he found that he couldn't. He was still thinking about Dumbledore and the coordinates of his life that had fallen into chaos this evening.

"Being among too many people makes me nervous," Potter told him. "And there were a few "nearer relationships", as you call them. Among the druids and elsewhere. But living with one of them would be rather awkward. I'm a bit too high in their hierarchy to let that work."

If Dumbledore had lied to him about that night and the Philosopher's Stone, Snape was wondering while listening with half an ear, what else hadn't he told Snape? What else had been hidden in the shadows? And how could he be sure that he hadn't been manipulated, like Potter?

_Oh, for god's sake, Snape, get a grip on yourself!_

"What do you mean by hierarchy?" He asked absently, if only to quiet the voices in his mind. "You are not even a druid, Potter, how can you be included in their hierarchy, for goodness sake?"

Potter shrugged again. Snape thought about unsocketing his arms.

"Well, technically, I _am_ a druid. It is a prerequisite of my position, and thus…"

"You are a wizard, Potter. They hate wizards… Wait. What do you mean when you say position?"

He didn't want to hear it, really. He had seen enough of that special Potter madness over the last days. Whatever Potter touched seemed to turn into total chaos, the annihilation of all order, that somehow nevertheless always ended in harmony and general happiness.

Snape had always hated tales like that. And he wasn't going to start liking them just because he had stumbled into the middle of one.

But at least his mind had been taken off Dumbledore.

Potter cringed again, the same way he had cringed when he had told Snape about the existence of those bloody Druids.

He didn't want to hear it. Really.

"Potter?"

"Well I am… kind of… you know…" Potter stammered, only to break off in mid-sentence. "Do you know the story of Percival and the Grail?" He suddenly asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Snape sighed. Of course. Handing him something that would even closely resemble understandable information just wasn't Potter. He always had to do it the hard way.

"I'm afraid I will soon. But make it short, will you?"

"Well, Percival was a medieval knight, and one day, he stumbled onto an ill man, sitting in a fisher boat on a lake. Percival asked him where he might spend the night, and the ill man directed him towards a castle…"

Snape groaned, loudly and in obvious frustration, and the small wonder happened. Potter hurried up.

"Anyway, Percival had just one job: Ask the ill man, who was in fact the king, what was wrong with him. If he had done that, all would have been fine, and Percival would have become king and guardian of the Holy Grail. Only he didn't ask, and was kicked out of the castle the next morning."

Silence. Snape waited, but somehow he knew already that no explanation would come.

"Do humble yourself so far as to enlighten me," He finally said, his silky voice expressing his irritation only too well.

"Well, with me it was basically the same, only the other way round."

Silence.

"Yes."

Potter cringed again. "I… sort of… became their leader."

If Potter had expected him to shout again, or faint in shock, he was mistaken. Of course Snape wanted to do all this, quite badly, actually. But he was Snape, stony faced spy for more than ten years, and the hard lessons with the Dark Lord himself had paid off.

"Fascinating," Was all he said. "And how did you manage that? Ride in on a flying horse and challenge their Leader to a duel?"

"Well," Potter cringed again and Snape had to stop himself from hitting the younger man. "A flying horse wasn't involved, though the vampires had quite a good breed of Thestrals – Hagrid would have loved to see that…"

"Potter."

"Yes, well," Potter seemed to have realized that he was babbling again. Unfortunately, this wasn't stopping him from babbling on. "Shadow asked me to help them in their conflict with the druids. I found out later that it was just meant as some kind of strange therapy for me, but at the time I took it seriously. They had been tolerating me for months, and I was quite… eager… to help them. So I sought and found Ayda, who was already the Leader of the druids, and asked her what it would take them to stop their war against the vampires."

Potter stopped, and then, seeing the absolute lack of expression on his former Professor's face, decided quite incorrectly that a longer explanation was in order.

"You see, a vampire – a new one, they are always too eager to prove themselves – had been dumb enough to kill a druid, and that meant war. Shadow agreed to enforce the safety of all druids from vampires, but to Ayda that wasn't enough. The druids are rather… pragmatic, and since they had already gathered their army, they decided to get rid of the vampires forever."

"So I asked Ayda what would stop their fight against the vampires," Potter continued his original storyline after a moment of confusion, and Snape had to fight the sudden urge to roll his eyes back into his skull. "And Ayda just said: 'Duel me'. So I did. And I won."

Potter sighed, "Problem was, nobody had told me before hand that winning against their leader would automatically make me the new leader. They have this weird system, a mixture of democracy and monarchy – every third month, the current leader can be challenged to duel, and whoever wins that duel is the new leader. And there I was," He shrugged again, grinning sheepishly. "All I wanted was them to stop killing vampires. What I actually got was the command of their army and a few other things."

"A few other things."

"Yes."

Snape waited for more than a minute. He even raised a brow to prompt some further explanation.

But the only thing Potter offered, after he had stood up and removed the empty plates, were poppy-seed muffins.

They were irritatingly good.

So much for the further use of the teacher attitude.

After dinner, Potter buried himself behind a large tome in the living room. There was no title imprinted on the leather binding, but it looked magical to Snape.

He sent a short answer to Dumbledore… Albus… telling him that they would arrive sometime around noon. Then he resumed staring into space, thinking about the thing that would later become Voldemort, about an old wizard in the shadows and a small boy, too young to understand what was done to him.

The older counterpart of that child raised him some time later from his thoughts with wishes for a good night.

"I'd better get as much sleep as I can," He told his former Professor. "Tomorrow will be… difficult."

When no answer came, he smiled again that soft, understanding smile of his, and turned around to leave.

„Potter," Snape called out to the retreating form, and Potter turned back to him, his hand already on the railing. „Voldemort. What made you stop hating him? What happened there, down in his dungeons?"

Potter simply smiled, all traces of exhaustion and illness fading from his face. It was the smile of a child on Christmas Eve, the smile of a man who was holding his son for the first time.

"I realized that, deep down, Voldemort was nothing but a poor, twisted boy that had never known a home. I discovered Tom Riddle. A human being, so much like me, whom I couldn't hate. I understood him too well. So I stopped hating him."

Potter smiled again, but something in the way he bared his teeth made Snape back away, raising one hand instinctively to where his wand rested. It was the smile of a predator, of a dark angel.

"And then I killed him. You see, hate isn't necessary to destroy a person. It is quite often in the way," Potter simply said. "Goodnight, Professor. Sweet dreams to you."

0o0o0o0

Review!


	14. Snakes And Slytherins

A/N: I stretched and wriggled with the sequence of events in this chapter a bit, mainly because I needed some space to get the talking done, but also because I wrote part of it while I was away from both the internet and "Harry Potter II". Hope you don't mind that!

I also apologize – again – for the delay. I'll try to do better, but I honestly can't promise you regular updates. What I do promise however is to finish the story! Slowly, but definitely…

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**Snakes and Slytherins**

The next morning, they entered the pensieve to watch the memory of Potter's second year. From what Snape had heard, he expected it to be at least as dramatic as the last one.

What he hadn't expected, however, was the fanged face of a gigantic snake, racing towards him as soon as the fogs cleared enough for him to see. Snape could make out two gigantic, yellow eyes, teeth as long as his arm with poison dripping from them and an unbearable stench before the monster had reached him, and, with the feeling of an ice storm shaking his very bones, slithered through him.

It was a very long monster. It took half a minute to press his length through Snape's body, and by the time it was gone, Snape was shivering and trembling like a man half frozen to death.

„Good Gods, Potter, what the hell was that?"

„The basilisk, Professor," Potter answered with more than a little surprise. „I thought Potions Masters must know about magical beasts?"

„Believe it or not, it's difficult to determine a species when it is travelling through you! This is huge!"

„Quite," Potter agreed happily. „But I thought the dragon in fourth year even more impressive. Now that was a fascinating beast."

"I hate animals," Snape answered darkly, feeling his mood sinking to a record low. "Especially when they go through me like ghosts."

"I must admit that I didn't like the basilisk very much, either," Potter answered pleasantly and walked towards the far end of the columned hall they were standing in. After a moment of hesitation and a poisonous glare at the slithering beast behind them, Snape stalked after him.

Only now did he take in their surroundings. Silently, he admitted that the beast had adapted perfectly to his habitation: this place was as huge as the giant snake. Though hopefully a little less deadly.

"So this is the chamber of secrets", he said half-aloud and was rewarded with a grin from Potter.

"Impressive, isn't it?" The other man asked. "I was scared dead when I came here for the first time. Never really saw the beauty of it, but back then I still thought all Slytherins and everything they created was evil by definition."

Snape had just formulated and exquisitely acid comment about Gryffindors and their unique perception of reality, when they stepped out of the shadow of a column and towards the statue of a huge, bearded version of Salazar Slytherin himself. In front of it, a young man was standing besides the fallen body of a small girl.

Even if he had tried, Snape couldn't have suppressed the gasp that made his lungs contract painful and echoed through the hall of stone.

"Who's this?" He asked, but he knew the answer already, knew it in the painful way his heart pounded in his chest.

"The girl is Ginny Weasley, currently running out of life energy very fast, and the boy is Tom Riddle, soon to become the nightmare of the civilized wizarding world," Potter answered calmly.

Tom Riddle. The name sounded so simple, much like Potter's name, but like the young man currently standing beside him, the person who had shed it was a chaos of emotions, thoughts and unpleasant memories to Snape.

He had loved this man once, like a father, had adored him with the fervent admiration only a young, attention seeking Slytherin could muster.

It had been easy to forget this fact with the snakelike monster that had been reborn on the cemetery of Little Hangleton, had been too easy to believe that he had only done it for the knowledge or his pride as a pureblood, or even the hidden prospect of turning spy.

But now, watching that angelic face, those seemingly innocent eyes and the slim figure of a boy commanding powers beyond his age, Snape remembered. He had done it for him, and for some time, the Dark Lord's pride had been his own pride, Voldemort's wishes his own wishes.

He remembered how it had felt to kneel before this man, much older than the memory he was now staring at, but still with that charismatic aura of power and righteousness that had made them all believe in him and his war, no matter what their brains had screamed at them.

Part of him longed for that feeling even now.

And one tiny little part of him, shushed and hidden away as soon as Snape became aware of its existence, acknowledged the striking similarities between this young Tom Riddle and the Potter who was standing by his side, calm, confident, and with an ability to tie people to his own fate like Snape had seldom seen it before.

"Where are you then?" He asked after he had silenced that treacherous little voice. "Shouldn't you stand guard over her defenceless body or something heroic like that?"

"I'm back there somewhere," Potter vaguely gestured in the direction they had come from. "Being chased by the basilisk, you know?"

"I should have known," Snape answered with a sigh, though the idea of that huge monster chasing a twelve year old boy made his insides go cold.

He chanced another look at the young Riddle, and this time he coulnd't help noticing the cold triumph in the young man's eyes, the arrogant set of his shoulders and the hate that screamed from every cell of his body.

He turned back to Potter, who was concentrating on the prone body of Ginny Weasley, standing tall but not stiffly, his face a little sad and drawn, whether with exhaustion or the tension of this memory Snape couldn't tell.

Yes, they were eerily alike each other, but at the same time the difference between them was even more striking. Where Voldemort was concentrating all his strength and power outward, to dominate or charm whoever came across him, where hate twisted his face in a mask of coldness and arrogance, Potter seemed to be turned inward.

If Voldemort was a raging fire, drawing everything towards him with his warmth and light yet consuming those that believed in him, Potter was a candle, sitting in a darkened window all by its own. Waiting for those who would see the light and decide to enter the house, but never openly drawing them to him. Having the strength to set everything around him on fire, but containing himself inside the small waxen cylinder, content with what he had.

And for the first time, Snape understood what Potter had told him about hate and the need to let go of it.

"We should stay with your body," He said absently, still eyeing the gloating memory of his former Lord. "In case the fading was initiated while you ran away."

"Not very likely," Potter disagreed. "Besides," He shrugged again, and grinned. "I'm running very fast right now, what with a giant snake wanting to kill me and all that. I doubt that I would be able to keep up with myself. But you are welcome to try."

Without sparing af further glance towards Tom Riddle and his prey, Potter walked over to one of the towering marble columns and sat down with a contented sigh, leaning against the cold stone like one would against a tree during a picnic on a fine summer's day.

From the inner pocket of his robes he took something silver that was shining dully in the flickering light of the torches. Snape swept a passing glance over it, then frowned and returned his eyes to the silver object.

A thermos flask?

"What the hell are you doing there, Potter?" He spat, his eyes darting from the sitting figure to the gigantic snake that was still chasing a screaming Gryffindor in the dimly lit back areas of the chamber.

"Why, having a cup of tea, Professor," Potter answered pleasantly. "Would you like to join me? I brough a spare cup," And he began patting his robes as if in search of said cup.

"Drinking tea in Slytherin's great hidden chamber, the one place every young Slytherin dreams about?" Snape asked. "You do realize that this is a palce of legends and myths, don't you?"

Potter shrugged. "Saw quite a lot of those places, actually," He answered, producing an old fashioned porcelain cup adorned with a pattern of flowers and polishing it with the sleeve of his robes. "To be honest, I would always prefer my cottage. Mythical palces are usually wet, drafting, or full of things you have to run away from. In this case, it seems to be all three. Tea?"

Snape hesitated. Then he sighed and mirrored Potter's shrug. "Why not?" He answered, walked over to the huge column and sat down at its base, about an arm length away from Potter. He accepted the offered cup with a grunt.

"So what's going to happen?" He finally asked, sipping his tea and watching the young boy stumbling once more across the hall with barely enough strength to move by now.

"A lot of dramatic nonsense, on the whole," Potter answered. "Fawkes should arrive any moment…Ah, there he his," He pointed at the red and gold bird that had suddenly popped into existence. "He picks out the basilisk's eyes – look at it, isn't he brilliant? – and carries Gryffindor's hat from which very soon the Founder's venerable old sword will drop onto my poor head. I must admit that this part seemed cheesy even when I was twelve. Really, pull a sword out of a hat? If Dumbledore had to go for the whole Arthurian stuff, he could at least have provided a real stone, couldn't he?"

"You're mad, Potter," Snape answered. "And the fact that you have finally developed something remotely similar to education doesn't change your madness. If you aimed for eccentricity like Dum… Albus, you should wait a few more years."

If Potter had noticed his slip of the tongue, he gave no sign of it. "I always spent much time around older and slightly mad people," He said. "It seems to rub off. But thank you for the compliment!"

He sounded genually pleased that Snape had deemed him educated.

Snape thought about those who had influenced Potter's life – the Dursleys, Dumbledore, Hagrid and Black. Ayda and Shadow. He had to admit that none of them appeared to be entirely sane.

_If it rubs off, what's with you after years between Voldemort and Dumbledore_, he thought for a moment, then decided to ignore the thought.

He turned his eyes back on the young Potter, the one person he should concentrate on in all this madness.

Not much had changed. They boy was still running away from the recently blinded basilisk, only that he was now waving a sword about, more than once in acute danger of cutting his own ear or nose off.

Really, sharp things like swords were no playthings for children. But neither were, he had to admit, basilisks.

"Were you seriously hoping to kill Slytherin's monster with that? Completely untrained? Hell, you can barely lift the sword," Snape commented, his eyes still on the fleeing boy.

"Well, it worked in the end, didn't it?" Potter asked pleasantly, refilling his tea cup. "And it was the only option left to me. I wasn't exactly used to situations like these, at least not back then."

"So you are used to monsters that are chasing you by now?" Snape inquired silkily. If he were to judge from the experience of the last week, monsters probably discovered their doggy side around Potter and settled for throwing sticks instead. He still couldn't get the image of all those vampires happily embracing him out of his mind.

"Let's just say that I developed a certain expertise for surviving situations like these, yes?" Potter answered vaguely. "More tea?"

Snape sighed again and handed his cup over for the refill, but a movement to their left made Potter stop in his task, carefully closing the flask instead and putting the cup back where it had come from.

"On second thought, we had better stand up," He informed his former Professor. "I will kill the basilisk any minute now, and if my magical core split during this memory, it must have happened then. Quite a nasty experience it was."

Snape opened his mouth to ask of what experience exactly Potter was talking when the basilisk suddenly lunged forward to attack the boy, his mouth wide open, his fangs glittering eerily in the torch light.

Somehow, perhaps drawing from some hidden reserves of strength, the Potter boy had managed to raise the sword high and hold onto it, even though his face was pale with exhaustion and pain. Snape gasped when the sword made contact with the roof of the serpent's mouth and, in a sudden gush of blood and saliva, drove through it.

"Ouch," Potter the man commented, but only when the boy finally let go of the sword hilt and stumbled to the side, his face twisted with pain and his whole body trembling did Snape see the huge fang that protruded from his arm.

Unbelievable as it was, the boy had slain a grown basilisk.

But he had paid a terrible prize for it. Already Snape's trained eye could make out the trace of poison that was coursing through Potter's veins, taking over the control of his body and flooding his nerves with a pain too intense to be expressed.

Silently, Snape had to agree. If there was anything that could bring about the splitting of a magical core, it was the excruciating pain of the basilisk's poison. Combined with the knowledge that he had failed, that he would die and a second Riddle would be unleashed into the world.

But watch as he may, he couldn't see any evidence of the splitting, neither the bluish light he had read so much about, nor the pulsing of Potter's aura. Only the small shape of a boy, clutching his wounded arm and peering up at his nemesis through dirty glasses.

"You know, the most annoying thing about the whole situation was that damned Riddle. He just wouldn't stop talking!" Potter said crossly, his eyes resting not on the memory of his own body but on the dying basilisk.

"Up to this day I was always sure that you survived your second year, Potter," Snape commented absently and watched the effects of the poison spreading through the child.

"Mostly I did, and you've got to thank Fawkes for that," Potter answered and gestured to the phoenix who had landed by the boy's side, huge tears dropping from his eyes onto the wound.

Potter chuckled when he saw Snape grimace in reply. Snape wondered for a moment if he should worry about the fact that Potter had managed to read his nonverbal doubts about the value of such rescue, but decided not to bother.

The tears cleaned and healed the wound while they were watching, but still Potter-the-child's face was a grimace of pain, for there was too much poison in his blood to let the tears work their magic quickly.

Neither the young Potter nor the man who was to become the Dark Lord seemed to understand the significance of phoenix tears, and Snape found himself questioning slightly vexed if it was a prerequisite of greatness to know nothing about Potions. A good thing he _had_ turned spy. One simply couldn't serve a man who didn't even know the healing properties of the phoenix!

Snape's indignant thoughts were interrupted by the silky voice of Tom Riddle, who had stepped closer to the twitching and shivering Potter-boy, now looming over him, his face half hidden in the dark.

"So ends the famous Harry Potter," He announced, and the ugly gloating in his stance destroyed even the last shred of attraction he had held. _Braggart_, Snape thought, disgusted, _At least he improved his rhetoric abilities a bit over the years._ "Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You'll be back with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry… She bought you twelve years of borrowed time… but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must."

"I always thought him too melodramatic," Snape commented lightly to take his mind away from the small boy at their feet whose situation Riddle had so aptly summarized.

Potter grinned in answer, but the smile changed into a thoughtful frown. "Besides, he was wrong about it all," He added. "Dying didn't seem such a bad idea back then. It was easy to accept. No more pain, see my parents again. You know, in a way the memory of Voldemort prepared his own downfall with this little scene."

When Potter fell silent, Snape sent him a glare, a silent order to explain himself, and Potter smiled again in that infuriating way of his.

"He taught me that there were worse things than death," He simply said. "That death was something that would happen to me eventually, and that every hour of my life was already "borrowed", as he put it. I've known that fact since my second year. It makes it easier to let go."

Snape turned back to Potter-the-child, not knowing how to react to the other man's words. The boy was already recovering from the poison, but Snape could see that something was changed about him, as if the basilisk had left some residue in his blood and flesh. There was a new expression in his eyes, and Snape wouldn't have needed Potter-the-man's explanation to understand it.

Since their journey through these memories had begun, Snape had seen many things in this child's eyes, pain and worry and despair, determination and anger. What he now saw, however, was of another quality.

Death had visited the boy, had claimed his future and withdrawn only unwillingly. What he had left was a knowledge usually granted only to much older men, to those who had survived the contact with death and realized that their lives would, finally end.

It was the knowledge of mortality that darkened Potter's eyes, the knowledge that he had taken life and would take life again. The knowledge that he would die one day and that until then he would wander in the shade of death.

It was a knowledge Snape wouldn't have ever wished for a child.

"One could argue whether I could still be called a child after I understood, couldn't one?" Potter asked quietly, his words merging with Snape's thoughts in such a way that it took the Potions Master time to notice that the other man had spoken them.

A week ago he would have argued against Potter's words, would have unleashed a stream of insults about Potter's stupidity, his recklessness and insufficient maturity. But he knew enough grown men who had been all that, and more. Maturity didn't make a man. It was the knowledge of his own, finite nature.

So he nodded silently. They watched on as Tom Riddle finally realized his mistake and threatened first the phoenix, then Potter-the-child. They watched in silence as Fawkes dropped the diary into Potter's lab and the child, driven by some sudden flash of understanding, drove the broken tooth of the giant snake into soft leather and paper.

Someone screamed, but Snape wasn't sure if it was Riddle or the diary itself and then, when the noise had become nearly unbearable, sudden silence descended onto them.

"I think we can leave now," Potter-the-man finally said when his younger counterpart shakily rose from the floor.

Snape however didn't move. "What did you do?" He asked quietly, still concentrating on the boy before him. He seemed terribly lonely as he stood there, swaying slightly, and in a pang of emotions, Snape realized that he didn't want to leave the boy on his own, not here, in this dark and dreary chamber.

"Pardon me?" Potter asked, bemused.

"You just survived a basilisk, its poison and another Dark Lord, Potter. You look terrible. What did you do?"

Potter-the-man shrugged, and a small smile grazed his lips. Perhaps it was a bit sad, but it also held a tiny grain of pride.

"What I always did," He answered as quietly. "I cleaned up, I collected my stuff, and then I took care of the others. What else was there?"

"You could have sat down," Snape suggested while he watched Potter-the-child, who moved like an old man, extract the sword from the dead basilisk. "Let others take care of this mess. Let your friend Weasley get help, or Fawkes."

"Oh, please, Professor," Potter answered, and still there wasn't a hint of anger in his voice, only quiet acceptance and soft amusement. "You saw my memories. Do you really think I would have expected anyone to help me? Besides, I had learned by then that things like these would happen to me all my life. Everybody had been telling me how special I was for more than a year by then."

_Or that you were worth nothing at all_, Snape thought guiltily, then shrugged that thought away quickly.

"But you were just a boy," He snapped, at the same time not knowing what point he wanted to make. All he felt was the terrible loneliness, the pain that emanated from Potter-the-child, the resignation that spoke from his very movement.

"No," Potter smiled. "I was never just a boy, Professor. I was the Boy Who Lived."

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A/N: Revieeeeeew! Next chapter will see them in Hogwarts. It should be a lot of fun to watch Snape's changed behaviour towards the Boy Who Lived and the Headmaster Who Lived Even Longer, shouldn't it?

I will post a preview to the next chapter in my forum (access it via my profile page) and I will also start to answer review questions there...


	15. Foes

**Foes**

„By the way," Potter asked. „Do you have any use for basilisk parts?"

Snape, who had been staring at the slowly approaching silhouette of Hogwarts castle for the last minutes, faltered in mid step and turned to the left, where Potter was quietly walking besides him.

„You must be joking," He said. „Basilisk parts are worth a fortune. Or is this some less than subtle attempt at blackmail?"

„Why should I be blackmailing you?" Potter inquired with mild interest and Snape rolled his eyes in silent annoyance.

_Because we are fast approaching the stronghold of all you left behind too gladly,_ he wanted to answer. _Because we're about to meet the one man that produces anger in you these days, and because I know far too much about you by now? I've become a weakness to you, Potter. A liability._

But all he did was snort, half in disgust, half in amusement.

"Yes," He murmured. "Whyever should you."

Something in Potter's face softened as he turned towards Snape and calmly met his eyes.

"I have already said this," He answered quietly. "And I will repeat it until you believe me. I have absolute faith in you. I have trusted you not only with my life, but with the life and well being of my friends. You are the most honourable man I know, Professor, and you would rather die than betray that trust. I know it, and you know it, too."

For one moment, Snape stared silently at the young man by his side, his mind and heart in chaos, then he averted his face and quickened his steps.

That settled it. Potter was as mad as a house elf. With suicidal tendencies like these, Snape had better keep him away from sharp or pointy objects.

"You don't know what you're saying," He answered after a moment, painfully aware that this was nothing less than an adequate answer.

But he didn't know what else to say, and he had no idea how to react to the warm, knowing smile that illuminated his former pupil's face for a moment.

Snape was a Slytherin, stemming from a long line of Slytherins and socialising mostly with his like. Slytherins didn't trust anybody, never completely, and certainly never without some backup plan if the scarcely given trust was abused by others.

Voldemort had bound his own followers to himself with blood and pain, forcing them into submission until they had no way out. Dumbledore had expected total openness and the will to sacrifice his own life for "the cause" before he had taken Snape in and made him a member of the Order. Hell, even his own parents hadn't trusted him unconditionally, and he would have thought them stupid if it had been any other way.

That was why Snape had never received such an open declaration of faith. And that was why he found himself at a total loss how to deal with it.

Potter, on the other hand, seemed to handle the continuing silence easily.

They had nearly reached the gamekeeper's hut, occupied by a young wizard named Oaking these days, when Snape finally cleared his throat.

"Were you serious about the basilisk?"

Potter chuckled. "Of course," He answered pleasantly. "I had meant to ask you long before graduation, but I was a bit… overwhelmed by the course of events then. I wouldn't know how to use them, anyway, even if I should survive the next weeks. I can show you the entrance to the chamber on any map and magically record the parseltongue passwords for you." He hesitated for a moment. "It would be a fine gesture if you could leave a few ingredients for Ayda, though. Basilisk skin is rather hard to come by for a druid."

"For anyone," Snape corrected, glad to be on safe ground again. "Are you telling me that you can record parseltongue?"

"Sure," Potter answered. "I found a way five years ago when I…"

Potter stopped abruptly, and something in his body language seemed to change. Suddenly, he didn't look like the friendly, slightly embarrassed young man he had been these past days anymore, but like a warrior, a hunter, ready to move and strike at an instance.

Snape followed the direction of his eyes, searching for whatever had caused this change of behaviour, and saw Minerva walking towards them briskly. That probably explained it.

"Professor," Potter greeted her, inclining his head courteously, but Snape was far too used to his usual tone of voice by now to not notice the cold undercurrent.

Ludicrous as it was, Potter expressed not half the warmth towards his former Head of House than he usually did towards his snarky Potions Master.

"Mr Potter, Severus, "Minerva said warmly, then, with a slightly frowned forehead, examined Potter's grey skin colour and his too slim frame. Only now did Snape realized that the man had lost weight over the last days, more than it would normally have been possible.

"How do you feel, Mr Potter?"

"Wonderful," Answered the young man, giving her a wide grin that somehow seemed to suck all warmth out of the air, exposing way too many teeth. Somewhere below that smile, Snape realized, an angry snarl was hidden. _And you don't want that to come out_, Potter's posture stated quite clearly. _You wouldn't like that at all._

Snape remembered the inhuman speed Potter had displayed in the vampire tavern, how he had told him calmly about killing Voldemort, and he was glad that this smile wasn't directed at him. Minerva, being suddenly assaulted by some prehistoric urge that had caused her foremothers to climb trees in fear, understood the message instinctively.

She cut the examination short abruptly, and extended an arm towards the school.

"If you would accompany me," She said. "The Headmaster is waiting for you."

"Just the headmaster?" Potter asked calmly and a muscle in Minerva's jaw twitched.

The smile had vanished from Potter's face, but the threat of the snarl was still there, in the straightness of his shoulders and the way his eyes were fixed on her and her alone.

"No, not just Albus," She answered quickly. "The others wanted to see you… talk to you as well."

Snape had to admit that he was impressed. Years of teaching and ruling the most unruly house of the school had made it nearly impossible to confuse, surprise or intimidate Minerva McGonagall. She had stared down the Weasley, Malfoys, Fudges and Blacks of three generations, and not even Snape could make her back off easily.

But it seemed that Potter had managed that unheard of deed without really trying. He smiled again, as if in answer to this special piece of information, and Snape could have sworn that Minerva paled under her solid summer tan.

"Then we shouldn't let them wait for us, should we, Professor?" Potter asked, half turning his head towards the Potions Master, and Snape had to suppress a smirk when he saw the pitying look in Minerva's eyes.

"Certainly not, Potter," He replied, in the same off-handed tone that nevertheless suggested some underlying threat, and Minerva's eyes widened for a heart beat. Then, she huffed, not knowing how to deal with all this subtle tension – she _was_ a Gryffindor, after all – and beckoned them to follow her.

They walked the grounds silently, and when they entered through the main door into the Entrance Hall, nothing in Potter's stance and face suggested anything other than serenity. But Snape had spent enough time with this new Potter over the last week to feel tension radiate from his body, and to see the rigid line of his back. Compared to the relaxed state the young man was in normally, this was the essence of nervous energy.

Potter was readying himself for battle. And Snape wondered whether he should be pleased or horrified that only he, the most insensitive teacher of the bloody school, was able to detect it.

_Talk about irony_, He thought, and wondered whether he had better compose another mental letter. Unfortunately, everyone he could have addressed it to would be in the Headmaster's office. _Well, they'll notice themselves when everything goes to ruin, then_, He mused and followed Minerva up the stairs.

The gargoyle sprang obediently aside as Minerva murmured the password, and the winding staircase carried them upwards with a whisper of stone against stone.

The Headmaster's office had obviously acquired a new door during Snape's absence, made from dark, polished wood and glittering with protection spells. It reminded Snape of Shadow's door, and he smirked. Obviously, Albus hadn't liked the way Potter opened the last one. But from what he knew by now, Snape seriously doubted that there were any protection spells sufficient to kept Potter out – or in.

Minerva led them silently into the office, but the place behind the desk was empty, as were the chairs and sofas scattered across the room. It seemed that they hadn't reached their destination yet. Walking over to one of the bookcases, the Head of Gryffindor touched the intricate carving of a bird and yet again whispered something indistinguishable.

And the bookcase vanished.

At the sight of the tunnel that suddenly opened its grey mouth into the office as if it aad been there forever, Snape felt his heart sink. So this was Dumbledore's plan.

Since he had read the letter that had asked for this meeting, he had known that something would happen, that this would never be a simple discussion of Potter's physical and mental state.

The Headmaster was too eager to help (_manipulate_, a voice whispered Potter, to make him return to his friends and admirers (_get him under his thumb again_) to not try another one of his helplessly emotional approaches.

But this, Snape had to admit, really was a nasty twist.

He scanned Potter for any kind of reaction as he stepped into the tunnel, but the man's body was totally expressionless. Nothing in his face indicated that he had ever entered this tunnel before. Nothing in his eyes betrayed that the room to which it led, the Order's Headquarters after Black's death had lost them Grimmauld place, was the keeper of any memories worth keeping.

But Snape knew how many triumphs Potter had experienced here, how many displays of loyalty and friendship. How many scenes of despair.

And as he walked into the Chamber of the Phoenix, a room he hadn't entered for more than four years, and saw the face of Albus Dumbledore, easy to read in comparison to that of Potter, he knew that the Headmaster knew it, too.

That he was willing to use those memories of pain and sorrow, of happiness and hope to his own advantage, to blackmail Potter into his return to the wizarding world, not caring what it meant for the man.

Realizing this, Snape felt the tiny doubt he had harboured inside himself wither and die. He had still hoped for another explanation concerning Potter's memories, had still doubted that Albus Dumbledore could have lied to him and betrayed a student's trust.

Now he knew that it was true.

Suddenly, he felt the touch of a hand and turned his head sharply to the left.

Potter, of course. Potter, squeezing his shoulder for a moment before letting go, in his eyes understanding and sadness. Not directed towards this place or his own, miserable past, but towards Snape and the feeling of betrayal that constricted his throat. Damn the man, how did he know?

Snape scowled instead of an answer and turned away again. Really, he would never understand the brat.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Potter smile in his strange, slightly sad way, then incline his head toward the people awaiting them. At least Dumbledore had had the decency not to invite the Weasleys, but every teacher that had been an Order member was seated at their old places at the round table, with Madame Pomfrey as a bristling addition.

That had been another one of the Headmaster's sentimental ideas: a round table, to show the equality of all members and to remind them of another order, long gone, that had fought against the evil of their time.

"With you as our Merlin and Potter as our Arthur?" Snape had snorted as an answer back then, but after the time with Potter, the idea didn't seem so funny anymore.

After all, Merlin had been the mightiest counsellor of this round, and Arthur had listened to his every word and followed his every wish. And hadn't Merlin's ploys and plots been the creation of Mordred? Hadn't Arthur died defeating his own son that was conceived only with the help of Merlin?

"Headmaster," Potter now greeted the old man respectfully while Snape fixed his face into another scowl, his usual greeting to most of the people assembled here.

"An interesting choice for this meeting," Potter continued, dry amusement colouring his words, and glanced around the room. _I know what you are trying to do_, the polite smile on his face seemed to say, _And it is rather pathetic, really._

"But quite fitting. I see you left my old place for me," And down he sat, one empty chair to his left, and two to his right.

The place of Remus Lupin, Potter's mentor and friend until Death, or rather its Eaters, had taken him, and the places of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, his best friends, his family.

Whatever point Dumbledore was trying to make here, Snape thought it rather sick. He searched Potters face again, finding nothing but acceptance and control. Snape remembered how Potter had reacted to the sight of his friends back in the pensieve and felt himself relax. The man had dealt with his sorrow. This would not bring advantage to Dumbledore.

As Snape too resumed his old place, tot he right of the Headmaster, he couldn't help noticing that with Potter sitting across from him, the table somehow appeared less round than before.

The polished wood seemed to stretch out towards the young man, to welcome him home and bend itself to his will. Although the curve of the table was as smooth and round as before, it was to Snape as if Potter sat at the front side, the position of honour and power. Quite easily filling it.

And from the look in all those eyes that were fixed on him, from the way the atmosphere changed, the magic seemed to swirl around him again as it had done that first evening in Dumbledore's office, Snape was quite sure that the other former members of the Order had noticed it, too.

Dumbledore had miscalculated badly, it seemed. It had probably been his intention to remind everyone in the room, especially Potter, of their former place, of the way they had belonged together, been forged together as parts of one single aim and depended on each and every part.

But the only thing he had achieved was to show everyone how much the tide had turned during the last years. Potter wasn't part of anything. He was a leader. And he wouldn't be led by anyone else.

Snape wondered where the arrogance Potter suddenly exuded had come from. It was expressed in the most subtle way Snape had ever seen – through the arch of Potter's neck, the way his open palms covered the edges of his chair, the way his eyes took in each and every one of them. Lucius Malfoy was an amateur against this.

Hadn't Snape seen Shadow do the real thing a few days ago, he would have been deeply intimidated. This way, he was rather amused by Potter's acting talents.

"Mr Potter," Albus began. If he was aware that his plans had failed even before he had opened the conversation, he didn't let on. But Snape saw Minerva's eyes flicker towards the Headmaster nervously. So there had been a plan, and it hadn't started with "Mr Potter".

"We are glad to see you so well tonight, although we know the illness must be bothering you greatly…"

_Trying to get emotional, are we_, Snape thought, marvelling at the sincere warmth that coloured the Headmaster's face and wondering if Dumbledore hadn't been a Slytherin after all.

"Oh, it's not that bad, Headmaster," Potter waved away the carefully constructed sentence that was doubtlessly meant to lead to a long, cosy talk about his feelings. He exposed his teeth in another one of his dangerous smiles and Snape braced himself for the counter attack. „After all, you taught me how to endure suffering very long ago."

_Below the belt_, Snape thought as he had during their first meeting in the Headmaster's office, but this time he had to raise a hand to hide an inappropriate grin of amusement. _Now, Albus, will you take the bait?_

It seemed that Potter was waiting for the same question to be answered, but Dumbledore remained silent while Minerva moved restlessly in her chair. _One point to Potter_.

"But if you are so worried about my health, it should relieve you to see that I can still walk, and talk, and think coherently, although Professor Snape would disagree with the last one."

Snape was glad that his hand still hid his mouth. To his left, he could hear Tonks chuckle in amusement, while Minerva's mouth thinned into a line of disapproval.

"And having thus proved that I am still alive," Potter continued, still perfectly serious. "I believe that all further questions concerning my health had better be answered by Professor Snape. I only wish to present some of my findings to you, and then I will leave you to your talk and concentrate on some research in the library."

Speechlessness. Again. Snape wondered if Potter was keeping a secret list. Times I have caused utter confusion, times I have driven my professor to madness, times I was nearly killed by monsters today…

But apart from his amusement, Snape had to admit that he was slightly confused Potter hadn't told him about any theories he had developed, and he felt a bit… left out. _No, _He thought. _Irritated. Enraged. Unnerved. Proper words to describe your feelings towards Potter. You are not feeling left out._

"Findings?" Pomfrey asked after a moment. "Do you mean new facts regarding your illness, Mr Potter?"

"Indeed!" Potter smiled at her as if she had asked the cleverest question in the world. "I found an alternative therapy to the one Professor Snape and I work on this moment. It is surprisingly simple, once you start to think in that direction."

"I thought of all possible therapies, Potter," Snape said, now scowling for real. "There are no alternatives."

"Oh, but there is one," Potter disagreed in a friendly tone. "It's a bit mystic, I must admit, but once I finish my research, I should have proof for its validity."

From the look of his face, Dumbledore didn't like the development of the conversation at all. He had been left out nearly from the beginning, and now Snape and Pomfrey had taken over the talking. Time to take the reins again.

"And what is this alternative you are talking about, Mr Potter?" He asked, only to see Potter's smile widen once more and realized that he had talked himself into a trap.

"Why, to kill me, of course," Potter answered pleasantly.

Speechlessness. Again. Damn the brat.

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A/N: Computer problems. I couldn't post in the forum, and I couldn't update. Apologies from me and from my notebook. We had a long talk about this, and I think he will behave in the future.

Now, to the continuing Arthurian allusions in this chapter (Tell me if you're fed up with that, by the way!): I twisted the facts a bit. It is true that King Arthur and his knights from the table round had Merlin as one of their chief counsellors. He was a wizard, but also educated Merlin and – to my mind – was as crafty a politician as Albus Dumbledore. Concerning Mordred, he was only indirectly created through Merlin's fault, being the son of Arthur and Morgaine, who was the unknown sister of Arthur. But the whole thing was caused by Merlin when he gave Uther Pendragon, Arthur's father, the chance to sleep with Igraine, the mother of Arthur and Morgaine. Igraine was married to another man, and refusing to be unfaithful, and Merlin let Uther look like this man so that he could come to her in the night. Later, Mordred caused discord among the knights of Camelot and tried to take Arthur's wife away (talk about irony). Arthur finally died defeating him. Rather complicated, I know. To be researched in "The Death of Arthur" by Thomas Mallory (which is a tremendous read).

That said: Review! And thank you for doing so before!


	16. Friends

**Friends**

Snape snorted in amusement, not caring that the room was staring at Potter as if he had suddenly turned into a bat.

"That was the very first thing I thought of, Potter," He said, a dark chuckle in his voice. "Unfortunately, it wouldn't work."

"Severus," The Headmaster admonished him sharply, but Potter seemed to share his amusement.

"I would have been disappointed if you hadn't, Professor," Potter answered. "But you probably never considered a ritual killing combined with a soul curse."

"A what?" Madame Pomfrey asked, irritated that once again non-medical wizards were supplying the crucial information.

"A soul curse," Potter repeated. "That's what Voldemort did to himself to gain his personal version of immortality. Basically, he bound his soul and magical core together and anchored them I this world so that only his body would die, but the rest of him would remain, conscious and thinking, to organize himself another one."

"How did you find that out?" Tonks piped in when Potter paused to take a breath.

"I knew some of it even before I was taken, back in my seventh year", Potter answered, then, smiling slightly. "And I had eight years to understand what happened."

Madame Pomfrey huffed again, an irritated sound that told everyone who cared to interpret it how little she thought of all these would-be healers around the table.

"And how exactly," She asked. "Would this soul curse help with your condition, Mr Potter? As far as I know, you already have the problem of being bound to another plane."

Potter smiled again, refusing to even acknowledge the barely hidden criticism.

"Exactly, Madame Pomfrey," He answered, in a tone that suggested nothing but admiration for her cleverness, and Severus had to raise his hand again. "But what I found out in my years studying is that you can also reverse the curse. The effect would be not a soul bound and anchored to this world, but the complete and utter annihilation of it. If you reverse the soul curse, you can scatter a mind and magical core into nothing. Unfortunately, you have to kill the one whose soul you want to destroy, for the curse only works in the short seconds between life and death."

That said, Potter leaned back comfortably in his chair and let his eyes rest of Dumbledore again. "I am glad that we found this solution before I became too weak to research it. Now the danger of Voldemort's return is banished."

Snape had expected the Headmaster to answer with the obvious, but Dumbledore remained silent and Snape felt a cold hand grasp his heart. It was Minerva, who, after a sharp glance towards her superior, voiced protest.

"But Mr Potter, we can't kill you!"

"Why not?" He asked back pleasantly, his eyebrow cocked in a show of surprise. "You accepted my death two times already, once when I was taken and again when I vanished after Voldemort's demise, didn't you? And I would die anyway if this treatment I undergo shouldn't work. The only difference is that this way I will leave this world with a clear conscience, not with the knowledge of having brought back the darkest wizard of this age. It's a fair deal, to my mind."

He paused, but only to rise from his chair, and before anyone could thinks of something further to say, he smiled once more, fixing them all with his clear, sharp gaze.

"Now then, if all is clear, I would like to retire to your library. There are some details about the curse that need further research. I would be glad if Madame Pomfrey accompanied me – Professor Snape was adamant that I always have someone around in case of a seizure."

He paused, perhaps waiting for reactions, but all remained silent. _They came here to meet a little lost lamb_, Snape thought grimly. _But what they found was a tiger in a sheep costume. _And Madame Pomfrey was an excellent choice for accompaniment. No one could question her competence on Potter's illness and her right to be present; yet she was barely involved in the machinations of the Headmaster and had never been part of the Order.

She wouldn't use the time to carefully probe Potter's mind, she would bustle and discuss the therapy and research on her own. She wouldn't even know afterwards which books Potter had checked or how much time he had spent over them. For a moment, Snape pitied the Headmaster.

Potter nodded once at the continuing silence, slowly, as if accepting that none of his old friends had a word for him, a gesture of sympathy, that they were frozen in their chairs by what he had become.

"Should I not see you again," He then continued. "I wish you all the best for your future. Fare well. Would you come to the library if you are finished here, Professor?" He asked Snape, who nodded silently and watched him and the bustling, nervous nurse leave, just as the rest of the former Order did, piercing his back with eyes full of the questions they had not dared ask in his presence.

Once the door had closed behind the thin figure of their former saviour, however, the attention turned to Snape.

"Severus," Dumbledore began, his voice apologetic. _So to me you apologize? I wonder how I earned that privilege. _

"Albus," He answered aloud. "I thought this room was out of use." He could make out signs of frustration in the faces around him and knew what caused them. Potter had disappointed them – they had probably hoped for some sentimental nonsense and only gotten a slightly bored young man in total control.

Perhaps they had expected him to supply details now. He never ceased to be amazed at how little these people knew him.

They had wanted someone to inform them about Potter. What they got was a Snape in full spy mode, eyes hooded, body relaxed to the point of insult and face expressionless except for the slightly condescending curl of his mouth. Potter had kept at least a polite smile on the empty stage of his face. But Snape's masks were designed to irritate the hell out of everybody.

And he was really looking forward to it.

"This coldness isn't good for the boy, Severus," Dumbledore now answered his implicit question. "We hoped we could get him open up to us a bit, to remind him that we were once one trusting family."

"I see."

Only two little words, drawled by the silky voice of the man who had been one of their master strategists, but it sufficed to make some of them flinch as if whipped.

He curled the right corner of his mouth a bit more and let a hint of dark amusement enter the blackness of his eyes.

"Severus," A hidden admonishment this time, a gentle hint that he shouldn't be difficult. _A Slytherin that isn't difficult is a knife in your back, old man._ But he complied, let the smirk vanish and life return to his features.

"I don't think it worked," Was all he said, however, earning and irritated huff from Minerva.

"What about this plan of his," She then asked. "Will it work?"

"I have no idea," Snape admitted. "I didn't know about it before we came here. He doesn't trust me with the story of his life, you know?"

_Just with his friends and his home_, He added silently what no one around this table had to know. Instinctively, he kept his eyes averted from the Headmaster as this thought flickered across his mind.

"But he did trust you to accompany him into his past," Dumbledore remarked rather too off-handedly. Snape had to suppress a smirk. Had he heard an undertone of jealousy there?

"I consider that more as some kind of punishment for my past behaviour towards him than a display of trust," He answered after a moment. _There you are,_ He thought, _My first genuine lie in this council for longer than I can think, and it's all Potter's faul _

But he couldn't forget the way Potter had looked at him while they had been walking to the castle, the way he had said that he trusted him completely, and the utter conviction in his voice.

_He must have placed a spell on me!_ But in his heart, Snape knew that it wasn't magic urging him to protect the brat now, and he cursed mentally. He would have preferred being under Imperius to this.

"It must be hard for him, to see these memories replayed," The Headmaster continued, again in that same off-handed tone. "They can't be pleasant."

Snape had to suppress a snort of disgust at this lack of subtlety. _Oh come on, you Gryffindor_, He thought, _Can't you do any better? You could as well go ahead and ask me what I saw!_

"Frankly, I don't care what Potter feels, Headmaster. We are progressing steadily, but we still didn't find the cause of the split, and that's honestly all I care about. I want to finish his treatment as fast as possible, leave that goddamn Fidelius-protected house and return to my work here at Hogwarts. If he wanted someone to care about his mental state, he should have chosen you."

He couldn't believe that this answer actually satisfied Dumbledore, but the gentle twinkling in the Headmaster's eyes told him exactly that. _How sure you are that I am absolutely loyal_, He thought angrily, _How sure you are that I will come crawling with any information you need to know. And how sure you are of my continuing prejudiced hate_.

If a little voice whispered to him that he was repeating nothing but the beliefs he had held about Potter for the past fourteen years, he chose to ignore it.

"You shouldn't be so critical of him, Severus," The Headmaster said quietly, but the satisfied line of his mouth told him the opposite. "He is just a boy in mortal danger."

Snape very nearly laughed at that. Seldom had he heard such an inept description. Even if Dumbledore didn't know what he, Snape, had found out over the last days, Potter's first appearance in the castle, the incredible power with which he had bent Hogwarts itself to his will, and the casual way he was talking about his death should have told the Headmaster that Potter was anything but a boy. And that, in Potter's view of the world, mortal danger was nothing to get fussy about. Better sit down and bake some more poppy seed muffins.

"He is an irritating, whiny Gryffindor that dragged me away from important work," Snape replied curtly and, rising from his chair and smoothing his robes in an impatient gesture, once more scowled at them all. "If that is all, I will not repeat that fruitless conversation about Potter's merit. I am preparing a detailed report concerning Potter's memories and will send it to you as soon as it is finished. But time is short, and I would prefer to collect Potter now and resume his treatment. Even I have no desire to place a soul curse on him because our work progressed too slowly."

He waited for the Headmaster's nod of agreement and a quiet "Keep me informed, Severus. And thank you for your efforts", sneered again and swept out of the room. He kept the scowl fixed on his face while he walked over to the library, sneered at Potter to get finished and shrunk the heap of books the young man was fixed on borrowing. Then he gave a nod to Madame Pomfrey and made his way to the entrance hall, Potter at his side.

They kept silent until they had well left the castle and approached the Quidditch Pitch.

"Why didn't you tell me about this, Potter?" Snape then growled, angry at his own feeling of betrayal and the painful lump that constricted his throat. "Shouldn't I as your healer – or at least that's how you introduced me to your friends – have the right to know about this so called treatment before you drop it on a whole group of not so friendly minded wizards?"

Sarcasm was heavy in his tone, but he could also detect the hint of a dejected whine, and he hated Potter for that whine.

"I'm sorry Professor," Potter answered. "I knew how you would feel about this and I wish I could have let you know beforehand, but the situation is difficult enough as it is. Dumbledore only lets you work with me because he thinks we hate each other, and because he thinks you're more loyal to him than you could ever be to me. Your reaction hat to be genuine, or he would have wondered why we suddenly trusted each other so much.

"So the only chance to ensure that we could work together undisturbed was to create exactly the impression that I didn't trust you enough to inform you before the others."

"You should know by now that I am a consummate actor," Snape grumbled, silently snarling at himself to stop

"Course you are, Professor," Potter answered, his smile a little sad. "But the Headmaster does not rely on his ability to judge people or even his Legilimency. No act could ever fool him. Only the genuine thing could. But I apologize for it. And of course, we will sit together and discuss it once we return home."

Snape wanted to tell him that he certainly didn't consider that cottage in the middle of nowhere home, that he was, in fact, home, thank you very much, and that he had no desire to return to that muggle contraption he called a house, but Potter had already turned from him, and, to his surprise, stepped even closer towards the Forbidden Forest.

"I thought you wanted to see the Quidditch pitch, Potter," Snape said.

"Well I did see it, didn't I," Potter answered. "And now, we're going to meet some more friends of mine."

Horror dawned in Snape as Potter accompanied these words with another determined step towards the edge of the forest. The memories of a cold knife at his throat and a tavern full of vampires flashed through his mind. He really didn't want to meet any more friends.

Especially not the kind of friends that lived in the most dangerous forest of Great Britain.

"Please don't tell me Potter," He said. "That your friends live in the forest. With Hagrid gone, there's absolutely nothing in there I would want to meet, and neither should you."

"You will be surprised." Potter said. "The forest holds many wondrous and beautiful things. But don't worry, we shouldn't have to go very far until we meet my friends."

"Why can't we simply wait here for them?" Snape grumbled. "Or are you yet again the leader of another mysterious group? The acromantulas perhaps? Or are there a few hidden giants in the Forbidden Forest? There are millions of respectable people to know in this world, Potter. Why must it always be the weird ones with you?"

Potter chuckled. "Oh, Professor, it's a shame we never travelled together! We would have had so much fun!"

Snape very nearly smacked him, but he kept going.

When they finally reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest and stepped between the trees, their steps springing on the soft layers of decaying leaves, twilight enveloped them immediately and Snape felt nervous tension rise inside him.

He had never liked this forest. Too often had it been the hiding place of Death Eaters. And even if you ignored the human criminals that made it their home, the forest was full to the brim with creatures he did not want to meet. Even Hagrid had been careful out here, and that certainly said something.

_You are accompanied by the adoptive son of the Vampire King_, Snape reminded himself. _Nothing to worry about._ Oh, how much better that thought made him feel.

The meeting with Albus and the realization of the old man's treachery had set him on edge. But he only noticed how much when a rustling of leaves through their side jolted though him like a bolt of electricity and the figure that appeared from behind a tree found itself face to face with his wand.

"Strange creatures roam the forest," The figure announced and stepped towards the light, completely ignoring the wand pointing towards him.

It was a centaur. Snape forced himself to relax and lower the wand to his side, but kept it ready in his hand. After the war against Voldmeort had truly began nine years ago, Dumbledore had formed an insecure truce with the centaurs, but they had never hidden the fact how little they liked wizards.

It had been years since any contact had been made, and Snape wasn't keen on finding out first hand that the truce had expired. He half turned around to Potter.

_No, I'm not looking to him for leadership, I just want to know what the brat will do,_ He told himself firmly.

Potter was standing very straight, his eyes dark and fixed on the creature half horse half man.

"Yet what could be stranger than the wonders of our minds?" He asked, his voice deeper than usually and very self-confident.

Snape couldn't help it – he gaped at the young man. _He's talking like a bloody centaur! _He thought in disbelief. _Ye Gods, what have I done to deserve this?_

Potter smiled, but still his face appeared older and wiser than Snape had ever seen it before. "Put away your wand, Professor," He said. "You won't need it here. We are among friends."

"What are friends but the facets of our future?" The centaur asked, face and voice still expressionless.

"They are our past that remains and our future that will carry our memory onwards," Potter answered in the same tone.

Snape however ground his teeth in silent frustration. This simply couldn't be true. He was not standing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest and witnessing a nonsensical philosophical conversation between a centaur and Potter. Potter, who had in his whole school carreer lacked even the ability to form grammatically correct sentences.

It simply wasn't fair.

Suddenly, something in the atmosphere of the little clearing changed. Snape took in the posture of the centaur and realized that he was standing even straighter than before, the distinct frown on his forehead lending his face an aura of dignity. Snape half turned around to Potter and saw him, too, fixing his face in an equally grave expression

"Venus is dull tonight, and Saturn chills the air with his approaching steps," Potter told the centaur, his voice implying some deeply important, hidden meaning, and all Snape could do was hide his irritated eye rolling.

Then Potter performed a strange hand gesture Snape had never seen done before, threw his head back so that his hair whipped the air like a mane and blew air through his nostrils. He sounded like a horse, and when the centaur repeated this gesture, adding a deep bow and a deferent movement with his hind leg, Snape had to remind himself sternly not to stare.

"Mercury looks favourably on your journey here, Eques," The centaur finally announced in a deep, ringing voice. "It is good that you came. Follow me, please. The Stallion King awaits you."

0o0o0o0o0o

**A/N:** Eques is Latin for rider or, in the middle ages, knight.

In medieval astrology, Saturn is considered the coldest of the planets. He is the sign of winter, old age and approaching death. Mercury was the Roman God of travellers and messengers.

Hopefully, the next update will only take a week. Check my forum for previews, answers to your questions and update information!

And review, please!


	17. Never Call A Centaur Horse

**Never Call a Centaur Horse**

Right. We're off to find the Stallion King, and Potter is sporting another flashy title. My payment as teacher does not even begin to cover this.

Logically, Snape knew that he should have been surprised. Shocked even. But after nearly a week with Potter, his ability for both was running thin. One could only so often be surprised by another person before starting to expect the unexpected, and Potter had overstepped that limit about an hour ago, when he had happily proposed his own death.

And after being adopted by a vampire clan and leading the British Druids, being friend to centaurs wasn't such a big thing. _Dumbledore had contact to them, too_, He thought, preferring to ignore that this contact had always been only with a selected few that were usually considered as outsiders by the herds. Stallion King, on the other hand, sounded a bit more important.

_But it's not as if he rides on one of them to battle. He is just "friends" with them._ _I wonder if they like his other friends._

For a moment, he was badly tempted to ask the centaur about his view on vampires, but the tall horseman hadn't spared a glance at Snape. _At least he didn't call me slave. Yet._

They followed the centaur deeper into the forest, and Snape couldn't help notice that Potter's steps had lengthened and that he held himself much more dignified and straighter than before.

It seemed that every new group of "friends" brought forward another facet of Potter's character. With Ayda it had been sarcasm and easygoing wit while the meeting with Shadow and his vampires had shown him the fighter that lurked inside Potter, as well as the humbleness the young man was capable of.

Snape just hoped that a meeting with centaurs, who celebrated a century-long tradition of stargazing and cryptic answers, would not bring forward Trelawneyish character traits.

But then the thought of killing him wouldn't disturb me so much anymore. Always look on the bright side.

While lengthening his own strides and keeping his back straight – he would not be excelled in the art of dignity by a Potter - Snape decided that he would not rant, nor shout, nor panic. Not again. Instead, he would take control. Now.

So he leaned closer to Potter, a sneer on his face.

"This is getting repetitive, Potter," He murmured into the young man's ear. "How much longer are you going to spring your important friends on me like this?"

"This is the last visit of this kind," Potter answered just as quietly, smiling genuinely at his professor.

"Are you sure? We haven't met dragons yet, and I am rather surprised that you aren't the Supreme Cleaner of the house elves or whatever they have at the top of their hierarchy."

In front of them, he could see the centaur's ears twitch irritatedly. Obviously, his hearing was much better than Snape had anticipated. And he didn't like being compared to house elves.

"Interesting idea," Potter answered. "I must ask Dobby about that. But no, Professor. All my other "important" friends are far, far away from here, and I don't honestly feel up to long range apparition at the moment."

Snape couldn't suppress a "Thank Merlin for that" and received an amused chuckle in reply.

"So who's this Stallion King," He then asked, his bored tone indicating that the question resulted more from curiosity than an acute wish to know.

"The Leader of the centaurs," Potter answered.

"The centaurs of Britain?"

Potter shook his head. "No. He's rather more important than that."

Snape's new found relaxedness evaporated into thin air. "The leader of all centaurs?" He asked, very proud that his voice remained so calm.

"Think so," Potter replied calmly. "Of course, there's this rebel herd in South America somewhere, but the centaurs don't take them very seriously. The rest of them are accepting the Stallion King as their supreme herd leader, at least in times of danger and conflict. They would never dream of rebellion against his law."

Snape sighed. _Always look on the bright side,_ He thought again, and aloud he said weakly: "Well, at least you aren't their leader, too. That would have been very bad for my temper."

"Oh, no," Potter protested. "You could say that I lack the necessary physical prerequisites." But the way he averted his eyes guiltily made Snape wonder, and when he saw the centaur that was leading them deeper and deeper into the forest look back at them with a more than amused expression, horror dawned in Snape.

"Potter," He hissed. "If there is anything you haven't told me, this would be the right moment to spill it."

Potter cringed. _Oh no, I've seen that expression before_, Snape thought. _The day was too long already!_

"Well…" He began slowly. "If you ask that way, I…"

But before he could properly begin his confession, they were interrupted by the centaur, who had stopped in front of two especially tall trees. Long ago, someone must have bent their crowns to the side, braiding their branches into an archway so that they seemed to become one. Thick strings of ivy were falling down from that leafy bow, forming a green, glossy curtain to that portal of nature and obscuring whatever lay behind it.

"Behold," The centaur now announced, his voice even more grave and dignified than before. "The grove of the Stallion King. The Consort is waiting for you, Eques."

_Oh joy,_ Snape thought, but Potter nodded just as gravely, and once more whipped back his head in the gesture that strangely looked like an inverted bow.

"Highest praise should be given to the leader of a peaceful journey."

"Yet higher praise still to the leader that guards us through the fields of war," Was the answer. The centaur, too, whipped back his head and then retreated with barely a look towards Snape, who sneered after him derisively.

He had always hated centaurs. They did not possess an inch of good manners, and they even seemed proud of it.

But Potter didn't seem to share his sentiments, for he watched the centaur leave with a mild smile playing on his lips. Then, he nodded to Snape.

"Ready, Professor?" He asked.

"How could I, having no idea what awaits me?" Snape answered, and Potter chuckled as if he had cracked a joke. Then he stepped through the curtain of glossy green leaves.

Not willing to let Potter out of his sight in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, even if this area was obviously infested with nothing but centaurs, Snape heaved a resigned sigh and followed him through the leaves.

He had expected a clearing, or grove, but what he found when he had brushed rests of the leaves from his face irritatedly was a garden. Strangely organized, and most definitely not to the taste of humans, but a garden nonetheless. Most wizards would not have recognized it for what it was, but Snape wasn't a Potions Master for nothing. He had spent months in gardens, learning the qualities of flowers, berries or herbs, practising how to tend and cultivate them, for not every Potions Master had the luxury to simply buy his ingredients from the very best stores.

It was this wealth of experience that helped him find the hidden patterns in the way shrubbery, trees and patches of flowers were arranged in seemingly natural wildness, although he knew few of the plants around them.

He had never heard that centaurs did gardening. Even the idea of a centaur carrying rake and watering can around was ridiculous. Ridiculous, but not unamusing.

Snape had half a mind to tell Potter about this mental image – _let him remain dignified with that thought in his serene mind_ -, but when he turned around towards him, he found the brat concentrating on a different person altogether.

Snape hadn't seen him before, half hidden in between shadows and trees, and he supposed that this had been at least one purpose the garden had been designed for. The proportions were wrong for wizards to vanish before this background, but they were perfect for a centaur.

Especially for one as large as this one. He was standing with his back to them, but their steps must have alerted him to their presence. Nevertheless, he took his time.

Slowly, the huge centaur turned around to them, and Snape felt his eyes narrow in disbelief.

She was a female.

That in itself was surprising enough, considering that no human had probably seen a centaur mare for hundreds of years. The males were very secretive about them, and normally, centaur females lived deep in the forest, caring for and protecting their young ones.

But that wasn't the only strange thing about the mare now walking towards them. She was huge, larger by far than the centaur that had led them here, and he had been more than well developed. This one towered over them, and even with human legs she would have been the tallest woman Snape had ever met. With the additional height supplied by the horse part of her body, the effect was impressive.

"Eques," She now greeted Potter, who once more performed the centaur equivalent of a bow, the gesture far more expressive this time than when he had greeted their guard.

"The light of the evening star pales against you, fair horse lady," Potter said, and Snape had to agree silently. In a very nonhuman, slightly disturbing way, the female centaur looked gorgeous.

She smiled, and answered his gesture gracefully. "We are all but mirrors to the heavenly bodies," She replied. "And the only light we may spread is the flame of our virtue."

Potter smiled. "Modesty is the only shield against the envious rays of the sun, my Lady."

"And Mercury looks favourably on flatterers," She retorted playfully.

Potter smiled charmingly and inclined his head, as if he had been caught in the act.

"I present to you Master Severus Snape, my Lady, Potions Master, Professor of Hogwarts and Healer of your humble servant," He said.

"Master Snape," The centaur greeted him gravely, her eyes flickering over his black robes. Snape, unwilling to even try the strange movement Potter seemed to have perfected, bowed slightly.

"My Lady," He answered the greetings.

Then, they were silent.

Snape switched his gaze from the female centaur, who was looking up to the trees with an expression of serene peace in her face to Potter, who was concentrating on the flower bushes with very much the same expression, and couldn't suppress a snort. That explained everything, especially why he had found that serenity of Potter's so disturbing. A wizard who mimicked the facial expressions and mental state of centaurs had to be confusing.

His snort must have reminded the centaur of his presence, for her eyes and flickered over him with an unreadable expression, only to rest on Potter again.

"Black crows are messengers of death, one says," She remarked.

Although Potter seemed not to have noticed the short interaction and even now didn't bother to lift his eyes from the flowers, he didn't appear surprised.

"But though the roots of a tree stretch deep into the darkness of the ground, yet its leaves crave for the sunlight," He answered as if trading analogies was the most natural thing in the world, and the centaur nodded.

"True," She said. "It is the balance of light and soil that makes it grow."

The lingering look to his face told Snape that they were, indeed, talking about him, and he wondered whether he should feel insulted or complimented, being compared to a tree.

_Depends on the tree,_ He then decided. For example, he had always loved the Whomping Willow for how it frightened the students, and after it had nearly mashed Weasley and Potter in their second year, he hadn't been averse to adopting the tree.

_Right. Now that we have decided you would like to be a whomping willow in your next life, could we concentrate on the situation at hand again?_ A voice bickered in a corner of his mind.

"And the balance of the stars that guides our lives," Potter added, and the centaur nodded again.

_Well then, how nice that we cleared this up_, Snape thought, the need to utter something bitingly sarcastic rising nearly beyond his power to contain it. He had thought the vampires bad, but this was not only totally surreal but also extremely boring.

I wish they would stop talking about the stars. This is why I always avoided Firenze while he worked at Hogwarts. Not to talk about Trelawney, that madwoman.

"I had hoped for the Fighter's present tonight, my Lady," Potter announced after another moment of calm silence. "Will Mars lead him to us?"

An unreadable smile illuminated the centaur's face for a moment. "Still you carry the rashness of youth in you, Eques," She answered in a tone of gently reproach, and he inclined his head as if he accepted the admonishment.

"Nothing can be hidden from the Gazer," He admitted. "But it is the way of the stars to end our journey unexpectedly, and arrangements must be made before the soul can rest among them."

Her eyes softened. "I rejoice for you, Eques," She told him quietly. "We all long to return home among the stars, but to cut the ties to this earthly existence can be bitter and mournful. I will call, and the Fighter will answer if it is to be."

That said, she turned around and left the garden gracefully and slow.

"I thought we were here to see that Stallion King," Snape asked quietly after a moment. "Who was that female?"

"She is the Consort of the Stars, the Gazer," Potter explained just as quietly, and Snape wondered if there were hidden centaurs guarding the clearing. "She rules together with the Stallion King, who is the fighter. In the centaurs' philosophy, she stands for the vita contemplative and he for the vita activa. Or to put it differently, he gets all the action, and she does all the thinking."

"Whatever does that remind me of?" Snape asked innocently, remembering all too clearly six and a half years of interaction with the Golden Trio. Potter, obviously getting the hint, chuckled appreciatively.

"If I understood that gibberish you spoke correctly, you just told her of your untimely death and she 'rejoiced for you'," Snape commented after a moment. "Do you have any friends who are sad about your dying?"

"Shadow," Potter answered after a moment of real thinking. "He would rather kill me than let me die, I think," He chuckled again, then threw a quick look around and concentrated on Snape's original question.

"It has to do with their philosophy, Professor. According to the centaurs, the original home of the soul is among the stars, and only there can we be truly happy and free. When the soul descends to this plane, it is burdened with physical and emotional rubbish. Death frees us from all that, and only when we have cut those ties can we really gaze upon our fate."

"Very useful that," Snape grumbled. "To only see your fate when it's over. That's a typical divination approach."

"Ah, but your fate isn't over with death," Potter exclaimed as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "For the centaur's believe that the soul will return…"

"No Potter," Snape interrupted. "I will not talk about reincarnation with you. Even the thought of you returning to Hogwarts gives me the creeps! It is bad enough to teach the imbecilic children of imbecilic parents. Your returned soul would definitely scare me into early retirement."

Potter smiled. "Well," He said. "Then I'm glad that we found yet another good argument for my plan – to destroy my soul would get rid of that problem, too."

"Potter…" Snape began warningly, intending to inform the brat fully what exactly he thought about his sophistry, but the sound of steps silenced him. They both turned towards the approaching sound, Snape with a vague sense of dread and Potter with excited eagerness in his face that turned into pure joy at the sight of another centaur appearing on the clearing.

This one was even more huge that the consort had been, and Snape wouldn't have needed the strange crown of iron and laurel that sat on his forehead to identify him as the Stallion King, but all further observation came to an abrupt halt when Potter did the craziest thing Snape had ever seen.

Crazier than confiding in Druids. Crazier even than angering the Prince of Vampires.

With a fluent movement that spoke of grace and strength, Potter glided over to the large centaur and, Snape couldn't clearly make out how he did it, as his brain's function crashed to an abrupt, shocked halt, jumped onto the centaur's back.

He's jumped on the centaur's back. Potter's sitting on the centaur as if he was a horse. He's riding their king, for God's sake!

Snape thought, his mind unable to form any other thought than the obvious, while his mouth opened and closed in silent desperation.

If there was one thing he was thankful for in this whole mess, it was the fact that no one could see him like this. But apart from that, there wasn't much to be thankful for.

It took Snape a moment to realize that the centaur didn't seem to mind this treatment, in fact, his face sported the same, deeply content expression Potter wore. Both had their eyes closed, their face tilted up to the sky.

_Potter again. I should have known that centaur's would turn into horses around him. It's just to be expected, really_.

"It is good to feel you again, Chairon," Potter said, his voice nothing more than a whisper in the soft breeze that played around him.

"My heart is filled with pleasure, Eques," The centaur added. His eyes were still closed and his forehead wore a slight frown as if he was concentrating hard on something. "But I can feel a darkness growing inside you. You draw away from this plane, and the separation causes you agony."

"I am dying, Fighter," Potter answered quietly. "What you feel is the illness that will take my life and return me home. We are working on a treatment, but it is unlikely that we will succeed. Professor Snape here is my healer."

In a flash, the centaur's eyes opened. They were fixed on Snape, and there was such intensity in them, such spirit and power, that he had to fight the impulse to back away. Damn it, he could feel those eyes enter his thoughts, his innermost soul. But there was no magic involved, and his Occlumency shields were in place – he had checked them before they had entered Hogwarts, and they were still holding.

"Born to a snake," The centaur said quietly, his tone ominous and hinting at some hidden secret. "Grown to be a snake, serving a snake and carrying a snake – it is fitting that he would be your Healer, Eques. Very fitting."

Potter chuckled softly. "Snakes are noble creatures, Chairon, although I know how little liking you feel for them. And sometimes, they may enter places hidden to everyone else."

"The darkness is clawing deep inside you," The centaur replied as if he hadn't heard Potter's gentle admonishment, but Snape felt the burning eyes suddenly leaving him as the centaur's concentration turned inwards again. "It is reaching for your very soul. And soon, very soon, it will begin to taint you with its blackness."

"That is why I am here, Chairon. We must sever our connection", Potter answered, his voice controlled and gentle like a summer's day, as if he had not just received confirmation of his illness' effects. "The likelihood of my death is growing every day, and I would not have you come to harm."

Something in the atmosphere changed. It was as if a chill had suddenly befallen them, as if a sudden storm was brewing above their heads.

"You are asking me to abandon you in your need, Eques?" The centaur asked, his voice dangerously low.

"No, Chairon. I am asking you to remember where your primary duty lies, and that is not with me. We do not know how my death will affect you, and if my treatment doesn't work, this world might soon be plunged into darkness again. Your people will need you then. I will not have you and them suffer because of our bond."

"And yet you know that our bond is giving you strength to fight your predicament as we speak. Without me, without the centaurs' magic, you would be a shivering bundle of pain on the floor right now."

"My, my," Potter said softly. "Do not let the Gazer hear you talking in such vulgar tones. You almost sounded like a human there."

"HARRY POTTER!" Chairon suddenly thundered and Snape very nearly jumped in surprise, his mind still trying to make sense of what the centaur had just announced. So this bond they shared – whatever it was – gave Potter the strength to withstand the illness? But the anger, no, the pure rage that turned Chairon's words into a storm, quickly snapped him back to reality.

What was it with Potter and his mentally challenged friends, anyway? Ayda, threatening to cut his throat in the kitchen, Shadow, nearly suffocating his adoptive son. And now the Stallion King, shouting at the human still sitting calmly on his back for reasons unknown to every sane person in the vicinity. Or, in other words, unknown to Snape.

"Don't you dare drive me away! Our bond was forged to provide counsel and help. For both sides! I came to know you much too late to aid you on your difficult journey through your destiny. And now that the stars placed you into danger, you expect me to break our contract? Are you questioning my honour, wizard?"

"Sometimes, prudence should be valued higher than honour or courage, Chairon," Potter answered, clearly pleading. "Sometimes, a cause is not worth fighting for it.

"I was born to the rattling of Mars' spear," The centaur answered, deep conviction in his voice. "I was mated to the one who sees our fate, to watch over my people. And let me tell you this, Eques, as far as I am concerned, you _are_ one of my people. I was born to fight for you. And I will."

Potter sighed, and slowly climbed from the centaur's back. Suddenly, all grace seemed gone from his movements, his shoulders were bent and his face looked like that of a dead man.

"There is nothing I can do to change your mind?" He asked, his voice holding no hope at all.

"Nothing," The centaur replied. "I will honour our bond no matter what the cost. And if death is attacking you, in whatever form, I will be right beside you, to fight of whatever danger I can."

Potter sighed, reached out with his right arm and let it rest on the centaur's shoulder for a moment.

"I was afraid you'd say that, Chairon. If you were a human, you would certainly have been sorted into Gryffindor."

Obviously sensing that Potter had given up on him, the centaur let anger and seriousness fade away.

His eyes took in Snape, then Potter, and he smirked, a positively Slytherin smirk that had Snape gaping in surprise for a moment. The smugness that spread on the centaur's face clearly showed Snape that he had noticed his reaction.

„Now, now, Eques," Chairon drawled, whipping his head back in a gesture of obvious amusement. „There is really no need to insult me like that!"

**0o0**

A/N: I'm sorry for the terribly long author notes that follows, but I tried to explain as many allusions as I could. If you understood the chapter anyway, just skip this part.

_Crows are messengers of death_ – I don't know about other cultures, but in the Celtic tradition, this fact is linked to the Morrigan, goddess of battle and death, who would appear in the shape of a crow (as crows were often to be found on battlefields, doing lots of unsavoury things with the corpses).

_The evening star_ is, if I didn't get this completely wrong, in fact Venus. Harry compares the consort with that planet because Venus is the goddess of love and beauty. _Mercury_ was not only the god of the travellers, but also a rather mischievous guy to whom the… let's say more adventurous type of people looked.

_the original home of the soul is among the stars, and only there can we be truly happy and free_ – We're entering concepts of Neoplatonism here, and I want to stress that I'm no expert (only in the medieval part of that philosophy). I took up some Plotin and a few medieval writings of that philosophical branch and gave them my centaur twists. If you're interested in that, just leave me a note and I will explain it in more detail in my forum.

_vita contemplative – vita activa_: a Christian concept of two life styles. The active life (vita active) is spent in the world, concerned with life and all it brings. The contemplative life however is spent in prayer, mediation and reflection, focused on eschatological rather than everyday questions. Often, both types of life were associated with concrete figures, e.g. in Dante's Divina Commedia, where Leah stands for the active and Rachel for the contemplative life.

_Sophistry_ – The sophists were a bunch of ancient philosophers who taught rhetorics. They are often criticized in philosophical texts because they allegedly didn't connect their school of talking to any sorts of morals. One of the fiercest attacks on them is in Aristophanes' _Clouds_, which is, by the way, an immensely entertaining read. I have to stress, however, that I rather like the Sophists. Always thought they would have been sorted into Slytherin.

"_Born to a snake. Grown to be a snake, serving a snake and carrying a snake – it is fitting that he would be your Healer, Eques_" – Chairon's meaning is ambiguous (as is usually the case with centaurs). He refers to Snape's Slytherin mother, his own membership in Slytherin house, his service to Voldemort, who is certainly described as "snake-like" on more than one occasion, and his carrying of the Dark Mark that shows a snake. He thinks this fitting because Harry on the one hand has fought more than one snake – the basilisk and Voldemort, but on the other hand is a parseltongue. The snake also refers to the staff of Aesculapius, around which a snake is wound (it is still the main medical symbol to this day).

Anyways, sorry for the long wait, but this was a long chapter and quite hard to write. I promise that the next one won't take nearly as long (and won't need as many author's notes).

Now: Review!


	18. The True Meaning of Tourism

**The True Meaning of Tourism**

"Honestly, Potter, today was a bit much even for me," Snape said mildly as they sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea. "I wonder if you actually plan these sort of days – do you write a list every morning? Let's see – revisit the basilisk and Tom Riddle, face off Dumbledore, irritate the Order of the Phoenix, propose your own death, meet the king of all centaurs and take a little ride on his back – and it's just lunch time."

"It wasn't really that much," Potter replied just as mildly. "Just remembering something and visiting some people from the past… and some friends."

"You're not just friends with the centaurs. You ride their king. They even dubbed you the "Rider". And I'd really like to know how you managed that. It's a bit rich, even for you."

"Even for me?" Potter asked, his mouth twitching amusedly. "And here I thought I was simply a bookseller with a history as full time tourist."

"You may be able to fool the Headmaster, Potter, but your innocent little act certainly doesn't work with me," Snape warned him, only to find himself the recipient of a bride, contented smile.

Obviously, Potter was quite satisfied that he couldn't fool his former Potions Master.

"Ah, but I never wanted it to work with you, Professor," He answered happily.

"Do not change the topic, Potter," Snape hissed, not wanting to dwell on the fact that he, too, felt strangely satisfied about Potter's answer. "Why do they call you Eques? And why did you use the Stallion King as your personal horse?"

"He's not my _horse_, Professor!" Potter protested, obviously scandalized. "I do not…control him in any way! It's more like a bond, forged to our mutual advantages. And I really only became their 'Eques' because of that duel with Ayda…"

Snape sighed. "Let me guess," He took over, drawing his words out until they were a mockery of patience. "The leader of the druids is traditionally also the Eques of the centaurs? Or did you challenge somebody else to a duel for that title?"

"No, not exactly," Potter admitted, a slight tinge of unease creeping into his face. "In fact, there hadn't been an Eques for quite some time when Chairon approached the druids."

"How long? And why did he turn to the druids?"

"An Eques is only chosen in times of need. For the bond to work best, the man or woman chosen must be a wizard. And as the centaurs hate "normal" wizards for their arrogance and behaviour towards magical creatures, they decided to turn to the druids. As to the how long…" He hesitated, then shrugged as if really wasn't worth mentioning. "As far as I know, they didn't have the need for one for about two hundred years."

"Two hundred years," Snape murmured and sipped his tea, refusing to be impressed that yet again Potter had managed to do something unheard of since more than a lifetime. "Two hundred years – that would have been the centaur wars against the giants, I presume?"

"Exactly," Potter agreed, then grinned. "Though the centaurs would never call it 'their war'. In fact they rather described it as a 'criminal and completely unjustified attack on an innocent people', the people being, of course, themselves. But the giants were too much for the herds back then, and thus they needed the certain extra power an Eques could provide."

"And what extra power are we talking about, here?"

Potter smiled sadly. "Centaurs are strong, and resilient. But they cannot command magic. The Eques can. His powers amplify that of the Stallion King, and the bond to the centaurs gives a wizard strength and magical power no wizard alone could ever wield. Plus a few more extras."

As it had been when they had talked about Potter's role as leader of the druids, his face now again made clear that he wouldn't talk about these extras, and Snape, knowing by now that nagging was useless with Potter in such a mood, accepted the invisible limit Potter had set him.

"I see," He said thoughtfully and Potter presented him with a relieved smile. "So what exactly happened in our time to make the centaurs need another Eques?"

_Just because I accept one limit doesn't mean that I won't go for the other information, Potter. I am a Slytherin, after all_.

The resident Gryffindor opened his mouth to answer, then took a demonstrative look at the kitchen clock.

"Shouldn't we be doing another memory?" He asked hopefully. "Only it's past four already, and we should finish at least my third year today, shouldn't we?"

"I want an answer, Potter," Snape simply replied, not willing to move from the table until he was satisfied.

"And you will get one, Professor," Potter promised. "But let's talk about this inside the pensieve, yes?"

0o0

Snape watched quietly as the Weasley boy was abducted by Black in his animagus form, refusing to admit that he had given in to Potter. He _would_ get his answers, and that he had agreed to move from the kitchen table to the pensieve didn't change a thing about it. It had simply been sensible, even Potter being the one who had proposed it didn't change that.

"Why did this memory start so early?" He asked while Granger and Potter danced among the whirling, whipping branches of the whomping willow. "The other one we saw only began when the dementors approached you."

Surprisingly, they had stepped from the Potions lab into a train's cabin, filled not only with Potter's friends, but also with the ragged figure of Remus Lupin, sleeping in a corner.

The werewolf had never had any dignity at all, really, Snape couldn't help thinking. _He _ would never have slept in the presence of students, and the way the Gryffindors talked about their new Professor only confirmed his principles.

It was only when Potter had reminded him of Black's escape, a month before the start of his third year, when Snape had understood why they were on the Hogwarts express.

_Dementors_, Snape had thought glumly. _I hate dementors. And now I will have a year's worth of memories filled with them_.

But it wasn't so bad as he had expected. The chill didn't affect them, and neither did, it appeared, the memory-dementors. They looked dreadful, certainly, but they didn't _feel _dreadful. Compared with those memories of the Dursleys, with the two Dark Lords and the basilisk, Snape decided, relieved, this wasn't that awful. In fact, it had been rather relaxing.

Until the screaming had started.

It was the voice of a woman, high pitched, desperate and pleading. Her helpless shouting filled the air around him like the voice of someone under the Sonorus charm, and for a moment, he had believed this real, part of the memory, until he had remembered where he was and who was present.

Still, the pure terror of it tore at his heart.

If Potter hadn't told him who it was that screamed and screamed in their ears while the dementor slowly glided closer, he wouldn't have recognized the voice. Hell, he wouldn't even have been sure that it was human.

"My mother," He had explained quietly. "Trying to stop Voldemort. Dying to protect me. It is the only memory I have of her."

Lily Evans. Snape remembered her as an irritating Gryffindor, nearly as bad a busybody and know-it-all as Granger. But this had nothing to do with the self righteous girl of his past, as little as the mutilated corpse of Miss Granger belonged to the bright, bushy haired witch he had known.

How many souls Voldemort had destroyed.

And not a muscle had twitched in Potter's face while he had listened to his mother's screams. As if all this didn't concern him, he had fixed his whole concentration on the figure of Remus Lupin, watching silently as the professor woke and defended the students with his Patronus.

When Potter had noticed Snape's irritated look, he had just shrugged and given his lopsided smile.

"It's much easier to bear when it isn't inside your head," He had simply explained and turned away.

"Potter? Would you care to enlighten me why the memory started here?" Snape repeated impatiently. They were now following Granger and the younger Potter through that terrible tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack. Snape remembered it all too well. It had played a major role in too many of his nightmares.

"I'm not sure, Professor," Potter answered quietly. There was something strange in his voice, some barely noticeable strain, and Snape wondered for a moment whether the screams of Potter's mother had touched him more than he admitted, then decided that it was of no interest at all to him what Potter felt.

"As far as I understood the spell you used to extract the memories, both physical and mental stress must reach a certain level. While my younger self isn't particularly hurting at the moment, he is currently worrying about his friend and had just watched the execution of Buckbeak. That might be the reason why the memory starts at this point, although the dementors are yet a good twenty minutes away."

"Well, the longer the better," Snape drawled sweetly. "Then you should have time enough to explain why exactly the centaurs needed an Eques and decided to take you."

Potter sighed, and Snape couldn't quite hide his triumphant smirk – or wasn't he even trying? – Potter would not get out of this one. He had, after all, promised an answer, and he would make quite sure to get it.

"Are you sure you really want to know, Professor?" Potter now inquired politely.

Triumph was replaced by irritation. Potter really had a knack for ruining every good – or bad – mood.

"Of course," He shot back, not caring that his face had taken on his trademark scowl. "Why shouldn't I? After all the nonsensical, pathetic and boring biographical details I was forced do endure over the last days, the least you can do is provide me with what little interests me about your life. So, why not?"

"Because it could fundamentally change your perspective on the past, Professor. Not many people like that, so I thought it better to warn you beforehand."

In the middle of the dark, slimy tunnel, on his way to the reunion with two of his three most hated peers, Snape stopped abruptly, turned around to his former student, and stared at him. Hard.

"If this is a joke, Potter, it is not funny at all," He said, his usually silky voice rough. "I have led a rather content life over the last years, due to the fact that you, and Voldemort, and all the other would be heroes that used to drive me mad were gone. Then you waltz back into Hogwarts and in less than a week, I am forced to converse with druids, vampires and centaurs.

"Most of what I believe is turned upside down while you stand at the sideline grinning like some imbecile saint, my loyalties and friendships are questioned, my moral beliefs sink into twilight and I am forced to remember a part of my life I had rather forgotten.

"You may enjoy all this warm, feely-touchy bonding nonsense, but I do not. I have come here for a task, and this task is the only reason I am willing to endure your weak attempts of domesticity, your imbecile friends and your irritating behavioural patterns! This afternoon you happily announced that I was to assist in your death without bothering to even inform me beforehand, and now you have the gall to ask me if I really want to know why the centaurs needed an Eques? You dare warn me that this could change my view of the past?"

Silence. And under the dark, wordless blanket that his little outburst had thrown over them, only interrupted by the sounds of something crawling in the darkness, something dripping from the wet stones around them, Snape's mind caught on with what he had just released into the night of this memory.

Stupid. Not only that he had wailed like a Gryffindor about the injustice of life, his complaint further ridiculed by the moribund state of the man at his side.

He had also told this same, dying man, the man who had expressed his trust and confidence in him over and over again, the man who had treated him with unwavering courtesy, that he considered their time nothing but a nuisance.

From somewhere deep inside his mind, the urgent wish to apologize crawled into his consciousness. He quashed it ruthlessly, too preoccupied with the last, and worst, implication of his little rant.

He had told Potter that he felt out of his depth. That his world had been turned upside down. That he was wavering in his loyalties to Dumbledore and Hogwarts. He had admitted a weakness to Potter.

And although he racked his mind for a fitting precedent, he couldn't remember when such a thing had happened to him the last time.

There had been an incidence once, during school, when Northstine had challenged him to a drinking contest and Snape had spilled one too many domestic stories. His secrets had been all over Hogwarts the next day, and Snape had never, ever let his guard down again completely.

Even with Albus he had always been careful what to tell, or rather, he hadn't needed to be constantly on his guard, for when he had begun spying for the Order, he had already turned himself into a polished, untouchable being that simply didn't do weaknesses. Unapproachable. Meticulous. Perfect.

Come to think of it, his last real sore point had been the wretched Marauders, two of whom he was on his way to meet now, and their leaders' little son, the Golden Brat of Hogwarts.

Fitting, that he would be the one to break a more than decade long control record. Less than fitting was the question of why this had happened to Snape, and why now.

If Snape had been in Hogwarts now, on his own, he would have retired to his chambers immediately and brooded over a glass of whiskey until he had analysed, dissected and explained the incident to himself, thus banishing it from his memory forever.

Unfortunately, he was not in Hogwarts. He was standing in an underground tunnel, with Potter by his side, who was probably waiting for an apology to topple from his former teacher's mouth.

Well, as far as Snape was concerned, he could wait forever.

"Lumos," Potter now whispered, and in the golden glow of light streaming from his left hand, Snape could see eyes as worried and astonished as when Snape had confronted him back in the cupboard resting on him.

"I didn't mean to insult you, Professor," Potter said, examining him all too closely to Snape's liking. "Now that you phrase it this way, I certainly understand why my behaviour this morning unsettled you. And I know that all this can't be pleasant for you. I'm sorry."

"You did _not _'unsettle' me, Potter," Snape hissed. "It is far beyond your limited mental capability to unsettle me. You irritate me, and that is a sentiment completely differing from 'unsettled'."

Potter just smiled. "If you say so, Professor," He answered without the slightest hint of aggression or disbelief in his voice, without a grain of emotion Snape could chew on to increase his own anger. "But nevertheless, I was thoughtless. I should have shown more regard to your person. And I should have kept in mind how much I used to irritate you."

_And here we go again_, Snape thought, not sure whose head he wanted to bang against the tunnel's wall – his own for losing control like that, or Potter's, for taking all the blame in stride and apologizing with the kind of simple honesty Snape had never managed.

When _he _apologized, it always sounded vindictive and sarcastic, like it did now: "I'm rapidly getting used to it, Potter, and whether it is my neural system unravelling or simple sleep deprivation, I find myself suffering less every day."

Pathetic as apologies went, this one was rewarded with a grin so dazzling, so delighted, that Snape wanted to sneer and scowl all over again, much like a stubborn child that refused to make a good impression. Potter's smile was all too pedagogic to his liking, telling him that _I just _knew_ you had it in you, good job!_

Teachers had usually only tried this attitude with him once. For a moment, he was tempted to fall back into his sharp tongued arrogant bastard mode, but found that he was too tired to do so.

"So, what has this _Eques_-business got to do with my prejudices?" He asked instead, hoping to gain some amusement from one of Potter's harebrained stories. "Do they only accept Gryffindors or their likes in character?"

It was a lame joke, he knew that himself, but Potter's pained expression didn't do much to improve his mood.

"Do you remember the incident at Kinnairds Head, five years ago?" Potter finally asked, his voice completely neutral and his face turned towards the darkness of the tunnel wall.

Snape snorted. "To call it an incident would be an understatement. I believe that Minerva, with her usual Gryffindor melodrama, declared it to be a miracle. Of course I remember it."

And, although he would never admit it, he had considered it a miracle, too, the mysterious event that had brought the continued hunt for rogue Death Eaters to a swift and very permanent end.

He had been part of the team assigned to follow the anonymous tip the Order had received – that Death Eaters had been sighted in the north-east of Scotland, near the coast of Kinnairds Head.

"I was there when the bodies were found," He now told Potter, his voice down to a whisper. "Nearly a hundred of them, obviously trying to build a hiding place in the middle of the forest. All dead. We never found out what happened to them."

It had been gruesome, the sight of the corpses lying sprawled among the trees and huts. They had all been killed in the most brutal way, but as far as their experts had been able to determine, there had been no magic involved in their deaths, apart from a strange, residual power they could neither determine nor explain.

The thought of someone who was able to kill a hundred of the most powerful pureblood wizards alive without using magic had been more than unsettling to all of them.

Silence. Potter's face still averted from the light Snape's wand cast on their surroundings.

"Potter? What has Kinnairds Head got to do with anything?"

"The Death Eaters never built those huts," Potter explained quietly, his voice echoing from the walls around them. "There was a settlement of centaurs there, the second largest centaur group in Great Britain."

"Impossible," Snape spat, while at the same time his mind began to work feverishly. Had he understood correctly? Was Potter telling that the centaurs had asked him, the leader of the Druids, for help with the rampant group of Death Eaters? Had Potter, together with the stallion king, attacked the camp and tipped the Order off? But that would mean… "We didn't find any traces of centaurs, and there were never any reports of centaur activities in that area. All herds and their whereabouts are known to the public!"

"All herds but the one near Kinnairds Head," Potter corrected him calmly. "They were hidden by a complicated system of wards that had been installed with the help of druids more than three hundred years ago. The centaurs bring their children and their old there, everyone who is too weak to run with the herd. No wizard ever knew about them. We believe that the Death Eaters stumbled over the settlement by accident. But once they were inside the wards, once they had taken control of the herd, even an army of centaurs wouldn't have been enough to defeat them."

He paused, and brushed back his hair with a sigh. Snape didn't notice. He remembered how he had mocked Potter over those first days of their forced partnership, how he had mocked even Shadow when the Prince of Vampires had voiced his admiration for Potter. He remembered Shadow's disbelieving face when he had asked Snape if Potter had never told him…

"Thus they decided they needed the extra power of an Eques again. And approached me."

"And approached you," Snape whispered, not believing how simple these words sounded, when the facts behind them changed yet another part of the torn and tattered thing his reality had become over the last days.

He had hated Potter for leaving them in the middle of the war. He had despised him for his cowardly escape into full time tourism. Even when he had found out about his role with the druids, and the vampires, he hadn't taken it seriously. Potter had still been the one who had fled before the job to be done was finished.

And now it turned out that he had, in fact, finished their job for them, without informing anyone. Without even reacting to the way Snape had mocked him.

Martyrs truly were a terrible thing.

"So you could never stop playing the hero, not even for a few years," Snape said acidly, the taste of bitter defeat in his mouth.

_Stop it_, a voice inside him whispered. _You were wrong, you were unjust. Don't make it worse by biting his head off now for helping back then_. But being a spy for such a long time meant that one became very good at ignoring little voices.

Only now did Potter turn back towards him, only now he lifted his head into the blue-white light streaming from Snape's wand.

"No Professor. It seems that I was never able to stop that even for a few years," He agreed quietly.

He smiled. And that smile, friendly, and open, and a little sad, told Snape that Potter understood. Completely. And that he wasn't angry, or hurt, or unsettled at all. That he was willing to give Snape the time he needed to accept the bedlam his world had turned into, and that he wouldn't hold a single word, a single insult Snape uttered during this time against him.

Suddenly, Potter's saintly attitude didn't hold the slightest irritation to Snape. Instead, it frightened him senseless.

But he wasn't the most fearsome Professor of Hogwarts' history for nothing. Instead of making a fool of himself, he gathered his thoughts and banished them into the furthest corner of his mind, refusing to acknowledge them until a later, and, hopefully, safer time.

"Now that my curiosity is fully satisfied," He announced, his voice sounding brittle and thin even to himself. "I'd very much like to return to the business at hand, if you wouldn't mind, Potter."

He didn't wait for the nod of acceptance that would certainly come - for hadn't Potter accepted every single thing Snape had flung at him over the last days? – and brushed past the other man swiftly, his steps echoing through the tunnel as the swept towards the Shrieking Shack, his face fixed into an eternal scowl.

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A/N: Review! Next chapter will feature three animagi, a dementor attack and an attack of an entirely different nature...


	19. Dogs and Dementors

**A/N:** Another long wait for this chapter, I know. But I'm really terribly busy at the moment, so please have patience with me. I _will_ finish this story in any case, and I hope to have another chapter up within a week!

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**Dogs and Dementors**

It was a rather harsh shock when Snape's memory-doppelganger passed him before he had even reached the entrance to the Shrieking Shack. He was wearing the invisibility cloak Potter-the-child had left so carelessly at the foot of the willow, but Snape hadn't trained himself on recognizing magical patterns for nothing. Obviously, they had spent more time in the darkness than he had realized.

Much more time.

His scowl deepening, Snape quickened his steps and entered the derelict house on his younger self's heels.

There they were assembled, the nightmares of his youth and his teaching career. Potter, Granger and Weasley, huddled together in a highly undignified way at one end of the room. Lupin and Black, both looking worse for wear, staring transfixedly at the wand pointing at them, and at the triumphant face of a younger Severus Snape.

He crossed the room and settled his back against the boarded up windows, joined a moment later by Potter, who leaned against the wall silently. Snape refused to look at him.

For a moment, he could feel the old satisfaction well up in his chest again, the triumph that he had felt at having finally captured his old nemesis, at having proven that the werewolf, against whose presence he had protested the moment he had set foot into his old school, had proven himself to be the traitor he had always suspected him to be.

Then, he remembered that he had been wrong, not wrong about Black's character, who had gotten his himself killed just two years later, but nevertheless wrong. The hate that had clouded his mind when he had met Black again had blinded his ability to see, to judge, and the result had been more than one near catastrophe, and the escape of Peter Pettigrew, which ultimately had led to the resurrection of the Dark Lord.

"Give me a reason," The Snape from the memory whispered. "Give me a reason to do it and I swear I will."

Snape looked at his own face, or rather the face of his memory, and the ugly loathing that twisted it into a grimace of hate hit him with the force of a slap.

So that was how he had looked to his students, to his colleagues at the Order. He chanced a quick look to his side, but Potter didn't even notice him, his whole being concentrated on his Godfather.

_Well, at least he's looking worse than I do_, Snape thought, choosing to ignore that Black's ragged, meagre appearance was due to an enforced stay at Azkaban.

Granger piped up then, her voice filled with horror that she dared criticize a professor, but unfortunately, her Gryffindor boldness had been stronger than her reason even back then. Snape ignored her, his eyes instead on the centre of action – the younger Potter and Black.

He was surprised when Black offered to accompany him quietly, as long as the rat went with them – he had completely forgotten this part of the conversation, all his memory fixed on the expression of scorn on the hated face.

Perhaps this visit to Potter's past wasn't that bad after all. It seemed to show Snape a part of his own memories, the part he had chosen to forget. _Although I'm not that sure how ready I am to remember all that_.

"Up to the castle?" said Snape the younger now silkily. "I don't think we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the Dementors once we get out of the Willow. They'll be very pleased to see you, Black… pleased enough to give you a little kiss, I daresay…"

He had felt so grand when he had threatened Black, when he had finally resumed that part of control over his life that had been shredded to pieces all those years ago, when Black had led him to his doom and Potter had stopped him.

Only now could he see how childish all this had been, how immature.

In the face of all that had happened since that one night, in the face of all those battles where he would have needed Black, or Lupin, or anybody with the ability to fight at his side, he realized what Dumbledore, and Harry Potter even, had meant when they had told him to let go of this hate again and again.

"You're pathetic!" The younger Potter now yelled, as if to emphasize his epiphany. "Just because they made a fool of you at school you won't even listen – "

"Silence! I will not be spoken to like that", The younger Snape thundered, but his older counterpart couldn't help notice that Potter had possessed, even back then, the ability to slap the truth into your face so that you couldn't run away from it. All he had learned in the past eight years was to wrap it nicely with a smile before handing it to you.

But compose wasn't a character trait Potter had already acquired in third year. Again, Snape could see the boiling fury in Potter's memory eyes, the same fury he had confronted Dudley with in the first memory they had shared, and not for the first Snape what would happen if this volcano of emotion erupted.

_I think I liked it better when he looked like an idiot_, Snape thought, his eyes moving from the younger to the older Potter. _It was easier to ignore what he said, back then._

This time around, he saw the Expelliarmus-spell Potter directed at him, and watched himself fly backwards and collapse with a mixture of anger and embarrassment – he did look rather ridiculous with helplessly flailing arms.

Sparing a glance towards Potter, he was treated with yet another of the man's sheepish grins, but he had learned his facial expressions well enough by now to see that his heart wasn't in it. He was just playing a role while his thoughts still centred on Black.

"I guess there's one good thing about this whole mess – at least I'm realizing about how many things I really have to be embarrassed about. I'm very sorry, Professor."

"I am used to it," Snape grumbled, astonished at how easy it was for him to accept the apology of a Potter by now.

He observed the following interplay with heightened interest – he had been out cold when all this had happened after all, and had always wondered what had occurred until he woke up besides the Whomping Willow.

Perhaps it was a good thing that he hadn't heard any of this. The utter inefficiency of Black and Lupin would have driven him up the walls. Why couldn't they simply levitate the rat over and force Pettigrew to reveal his true form, for Merlin's sake? It wasn't that difficult to keep your mind on the business!

Only that he hadn't done so, either, and been rewarded for it with a painful headache.

Snape had half expected the other man to continue their talk, to comment on the ridiculousness of the whole situation or perhaps offer some of his saintly wisdom when they watched Lupin and Black explaining the rat's identity as if they had just invented the wheel.

Only when Potter-the-child stepped into the argument, his eyes blazing with fury at the thought of Black killing Pettigrew, did Potter-the-man finally speak.

"To think that I hated Sirius so much," He whispered. "Just moments before my whole world turned."

"There are far worse emotions to connect with Black, Potter," Snape answered lightly. "And if your affection towards him hadn't been so unreasonably deep, you wouldn't have suffered as you did when he fell through the veil." There. A logical, sensitive comment without even one insult embedded in it. And who said he hadn't overcome his childish hate?

"Sirius was a very ill man, Professor," Potter said calmly.

_Screw sensitivity._

"He was hopelessly infantile and arrogant, Potter. Not a good friend to anybody, not a good godfather. Just someone who was unable to grow up and realize that the world consisted of more than black and white."

Potter just smiled a sad little half-smile, but there was a tiredness to it, a bone deep exhaustion Snape had never seen before, which told him better than any word how much the Fading was taking from him.

"Of course he was, Professor, but you must consider Sirius' situation. People like Sirius always grow up too late. The world is nothing but a playground to them, and before Sirius could learn just how wrong he was, he was thrown into Azkaban for 12 years, with the death of his foster-family on his shoulders, and everyone that mattered full of hate towards him. No wonder he never reached anything like maturity. There was only spite in his soul, and terror, and hopelessness. Believe me, I know the feeling."

"One more reason why he should have helped you instead of encouraging your Gryffindor stupidity," Snape hissed, getting ready for the argument he had been itching for since they had entered the tunnel. He was right about this, he _knew _it. This time, Potter wouldn't find a satisfying answer to every criticism he could offer. This time, _he _would win.

But Potter just smiled at him, a tired, understanding smile, and turned away to watch the transformation of Peter Pettigrew.

Snape felt disappointed, and had to suppress the sudden urge to argue that Potter wasn't fair. Really, he was degenerating with a worrying speed.

_Pull yourself together_, He scolded himself as Peter Pettigrew, now human again, tried to argue his way out of the truth. _You're not here for reminiscence, you're task is to look for signs of illness._

Black, Lupin and Pettigrew were babbling again, claiming their innocence and the other's guilt in the highest tones. Snape snorted as he turned away from the adults and concentrated on Potter. Sometimes, he really missed being a Death Eater. If there was one good thing about his colleagues, it had been their tendency to decide fast and act even faster. Among Death Eaters, Pettigrew would be out cold by now and the whole group back on their way to the castle. Or rather, Black and Lupin would be dead and Pettigrew with the children on his way to Voldemort. Perhaps not such a good alternative, after all.

But at least they wouldn't have forced the boy to listen to all of this, to get his world turned upside down and back up again in less than a minute. He could see the strain of hearing all this, of meeting his fathers traitorous friends under such circumstances in Potter's eyes, in the way he moved. His spine stiff as when he had been confronted by the Dursleys, his eyes huge and full of emotions that were boiling and whirling and too confused to be named.

His eyes were darting from Black to Lupin to Pettigrew and back again, unwilling to fix on one, unwilling to make a decision that would bring one of them nearer to his heart or abandon the other.

Snape felt anger again stirring in his chest. Here they were, after 12 years of neglect and abuse, fighting over Potter's attention, but again this wasn't about him. For the first time in his life, the boy had had a chance of an adult really caring for him this night, but the chance was already tainted with the need to decide a man's fate. He could only buy his godfather with the condemnation of another man, and Snape saw in Potter's eyes the knowledge of this taint.

It was the Chamber of Secrets all over again, Snape thought, for a moment feeling the deep impulse to step between Potter and the adults that quarrelled over him. No child should have been forced to make this decision. No child should have handled this situation on his own. It hadn't been his task to judge this pitiful man's destiny, and yet they had made him do it.

And although Snape knew that Black, and Lupin, and he himself had been the ones to blame for Pettigrew's escape and all the evil he had committed thereafter, one short look to the face of Potter-the-man confirmed what he had believed before.

Potter had blamed himself for the decision he had made that night. Caught between the choices of allowing Pettigrew's death, the death of the man who had destroyed his parents, and mercy, he had chosen mercy, and had paid dearly for it in the years to come.

"Why was everything always your job, Potter?" Snape whispered, his voice nearly lost in the heated argument that was still going on around them.

"Probably because I simply exuded confidence and leadership," Potter-the-man answered dryly, and Snape didn't need to look at the scrawny, more than nervous boy before him to understand the sarcasm in those words.

But he understood even more. Over the last days, he had learned to listen to Potter, to really listen to him like he did to the boiling of a potion, to concentrate on the soft sound of simmering, the nuances of noise the slow heating produced, and this sense for subtlety found tiredness behind the dry humour, resignation, but also acceptance.

For a moment, he felt a deep longing to meet the Potter in between, not this young boy who hadn't even understood how the world treated him, or this man, who had understood everything, accepted it, and moved on, but the angry, despairing young man he must have been when he had realized what they had done to him, when he had found himself in the trap they had all built for him and understood, for the first time, that those walls were not there for his own safety.

It was a great moment when one understands the contingency of one's own destiny, but with Potter, it must have been a moment fit to break his heart, and soul, and spine. Snape wondered how he had survived it.

But then they were moving again, down the rickety stairs of the Shrieking Shack, with Snape nearly falling over a particularly large rock, because his eyes were riveted on the Potter boy. Hope had been added to his fear and insecurity, and while hope in itself wasn't a bad thing to feel, Snape knew all too well how soon it would crush and leave Potter even more desperate.

Perhaps they had finally reached the memory that had initiated the splitting, and if it was, he couldn't allow himself to lose a second.

He ignored his own younger body drifting weirdly behind them and the still protesting Pettigrew, chained to both Lupin and Ron.

He was close enough to Potter-the-boy to hear Black's offer of guardianship and a home, close enough to see the boy's face light up as if a sun had settled behind his eyes, and to see the light mirrored in Black's face when Potter agreed.

For a moment, one single, excruciating moment hat might have been designed by Schroedinger himself, there was the belief among them that everything would be finally alright. Black would be free, Potter would move in with him and his life would change for the better. There would be someone to care for him, and guard him, and keeping him safe from Dumbledore's and Voldemort's machinations.

Only that there was a flaw in it, Snape thought glumly. They were talking about _Black_ and _Potter_, after all. Not even one of them on his own had ever managed to get through a day without at least a few catastrophes. The chance of both of them, together, getting things work the way they wanted, was ludicrous.

He could have told them so had he not been floating unconscious behind the small group. But the voice of truth had never been well received with those two, anyway.

"I wish we could speed this memory up a bit," Potter suddenly said as they followed their younger self out of the secret tunnel and into the fresh darkness of a summer night. "This whole foreplay really isn't necessary."

Snape frowned. This was the first time since they had worked together that Potter sounded impatient. He didn't radiate his usual annoying serenity, either. In fact, his whole frame spoke of nervousness, a lingering unease that didn't fit his emotionless, calm face.

"Stressed, Potter," He mocked, but received no reply. Strange. Potter had never been one to let a chance for friendly bickering pass, and Snape had come quite used to it over the last week. He had half a mind to stop the memory and ask what was going on.

But then the moon broke through the clouds and Snape forgot about Potter's strange behaviour, fascinated and horrified alike by the transformation Lupin went through.

He had seen it before, of course, the grotesque re-forming of limbs and skin, the way his shoulders were hunching, his hair was sprouting from face and hands, the way his fingers clawed into paws, but still it fascinated him in a terror inspiring way.

The thought that he had nearly been bitten by _this, _all those years ago, the distant memory of yellow eyes, claws reaching for him, froze him in his tracks.

He stood motionless as chaos broke loose. Black had transformed and was fighting the wolf, Pettigrew was stunning Weasley, being in turn disarmed by Potter, and hurrying away in his rat form, and still Potter-the-boy just stood there, his eyes darting from wolf to dog, trying to estimate the chances of getting a spell through and realizing immediately that there wasn't a chance.

Lupin fled, and for a fleeting moment, Snape considered taunting him about being afraid of a dog, before he remembered that all participants in this memory, with the exception of him and Potter, had been dead for many years, and that Potter would most likely join them soon.

Now there was a sobering thought.

He could see Black, still in his dog form, stumbling after Lupin, but it was clear that he wouldn't be able to move fast enough to catch the werewolf, as Granger and Potter moved to their fallen peer. Of course they had no idea how to revive him, and if they were sensible, they would simply hurry him and Weasley to the castle and let the teachers do the work. Well, Miss Granger would, for Potter had that look in his eyes again…

Snape didn't need the knowledge of the future to know what would happen. Racing after a werewolf that was followed by his dogfather simply was too Potterish to leave a chance of acting differently.

And Granger, ever the loyal friend even in the most idiotic of situations, tore after him.

They didn't have far to go, although Snape could hear Potter-the-man breathe heavily when they reached the shore of the lake. Snape looked up in time to see the dementors closing in on them, and in pure reflex reached for his wand. But it was useless, he knew it well enough.

He concentrated on Potter again as the boy shouted for Granger to 'think of something happy'. Snape wondered whether Potter was really mad enough to believe that the two of them could defeat more than a hundred dementors and then, listening to the desperate cries of 'Expecto Patronum', realized that, yes, he _really_ was.

There were black, floating shapes everywhere around them now. Granger whimpered in pain and fear, her wand falling from her lifeless hand to the ground as she, too, collapsed to her knees. Black gave a shudder, rolled over and lay motionless on the ground, pale as death.

Only Potter stayed on his feet, still fighting, his wand darting from dementor to dementor, his horse voice still yelling for his Patronus to appear. Snape stepped even closer, close enough to see the sweat on Potter's forehead, the pure panic in his eyes still mixed with a desperate hope that everything would be alright, everything would go well… But he couldn't find a sign of the Fading.

The silvery mist Potter had conjured spread thin, straining to surround not only him but also his friend and godfather, and Potter dropped to his knees in the effort to keep it strong enough. The dementors drew in closer, and Snape shuddered with revulsion when he saw one of them pass right through him, pass through him and stretch out his dead slimy hand from the folds of his cloak. It made a gesture as thought to sweep the Patronus aside.

"No – _no," _Potter-the-boy gasped. "He's innocent… expecto – expecto patronum…"

But it was no use, and Snape could see from the way his shoulders stooped and his head bowed that the boy knew.

The dementor raised both its rotting hands – and lowered its hood.

Snape looked away from the fearful sight. He had seen more than his share of dementors during the war, and he wasn't keen on watching the shapeless hole of their mouths through which his soul had nearly been sucked more than once. Potter's patronus flickered and died.

And the screaming started again. Potter's breathing came in ragged gasps as the dementor moved nearer, his ghastly mouth lowering down on Potter's in the awful parody of a lover's kiss.

Snape stared. He hadn't known that Potter had come so close to dying that night. Despite his knowledge that this was just a memory, that it had already happened and Potter had survived, he felt panic knotting his insides together. He looked up to search for the help that surely had to come now, that needed to happen quick if Potter was to be rescued, his ears ringing with the screams of Lily Potter.

He looked up and saw a huge silver stag galloping towards him.

For a moment, time seem suspended. Snape stared and stared, watching the mighty beast chase away the hoard of dementors with ease and then standing completely still for a moment, watching over the fallen bodies of Potter, Black and Granger.

Then it galloped back to the other shore, his graceful neck arching in a joyful bow to the beauty of life and nature, galloped back to the small figure of a boy, standing near the water very still and watching his Patronus' swift and elegant movements.

Potter.

A shudder went through Snape as he realized that this boy, this _child_ had possessed the power to conjure a Patronus like that. He wondered for a moment how Potter could be there on the shore when he was lying unconscious besides him at the same time, but then decided that Granger's time turner had probably to do with that.

He looked from Potter to Potter, from the fallen, frail figure to the one standing proud and straight at the lake shore for a moment, before he turned away and vanished into the forest.

And he saw again what he had seen during Potter's second year, when he had confronted Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. Power. An innocent, unconscious power not to be used lightly or readily. But when it was used, it was wielded with a will and determination behind it to make things matter, to change the course of the world around him.

The realization that he had always underestimated Potter-the-boy, just as he had underestimated the man besides him in the beginning, galled Snape to no end. He was rather surprised that Potter-the man hadn't rubbed it in by now.

"What, Potter, no second-hand wisdom from you this time?" He asked, and when Potter didn't react, turned around to the younger man.

What he saw made him curse in frustration. Instead of leaning casually against the tree in that irritating fashion of his, Potter was sprawled on the ground, twitching and convulsing in pain.

xXx

A/N: I'm said to admit that most of the good action in this chaper came from Ms Rowling herself, but if we have to steal, better to steal from the best...

Review!


	20. Lessons in Pain

**Lessons in Pain**

_Instead of leaning casually against the tree in that irritating fashion of his, Potter was sprawled on the ground, twitching and convulsing in pain._

Snape cursed and rushed over to him, ignoring the slowly dimming memory landscape around him. The background would fade to twilight and mist while waiting for them to exit the pensieve, but at least it offered a stable environment until Snape had snapped Potter out of this new seizure.

"Idiot!" Snape shouted, and slapped Potter's face hard. He derived more pleasure from it than he had expected. "You could have told me that you felt unwell, but, no, you had to play the hero and risk everything…"

Abruptly, Snape fell silent. It hadn't worked. The tendrils of magic were building quickly around Potter, and Snape could see a blue veil of power clouding his body and slithering across his skin.

But it should have stopped by now, the pain offering a distraction strong enough to end the seizure. Too worried to even insult Potter, Snape bent down and slapped him again, putting all his considerable strength into the movement.

Nothing. Only the convulsions building up until Potter's body twitched and jerked like an unconscious rider on the back of a mad horse.

All of a sudden, panic and worry vanished from Snape's mind, leaving only the clarity of analysis and thoughts. It had been this ability to think coolly amidst the greatest of crises that had turned him into the excellent potions master he was, and that had allowed him to survive during his many years as spy for the Order.

Hopefully, it would rescue Potter's life now.

Snape already had his wand out and trained on Potter when he realized that the spell wouldn't last through the transition. Unless he wanted Potter to crash to the floor once they were back in their reality – and with his usual luck the brat would crack his head on something then – he would have to carry him.

Cursing under his breath, Snape bent down to gather Potter in his arms, nearly letting him go in his surprise at how light the young man was. Judging from the effort needed to carry Potter, he had to weigh virtually nothing.

The body was limp in his arms, his head bouncing up and down when Snape stood, but the eye he kept on Potter was only a clinical one, searching for changes in his state, while in his mind he sorted through possible treatments and solutions.

If pain wasn't strong enough a stimulant any longer, what could he do to snap Potter out of the seizure before his core broke free and they were all at the mercy of Voldemort once more?

He stepped out of the pensieve, his hands tightening protectively around Potter, and before his body could notice that the environment had changed and stumble in its balance, he was already through the door of the Potions lab, up the stairs and in Potter's bathroom.

A swish of his wand activated the water supply to the tub, and icy coldness was streaming out of the tap.

He was irritated enough to simply drop Potter into the tub, but reminded himself that he wasn't interested in adding a fractured skull to Potter's medical problems. Thus, he carefully lowered Potter into his icy bath, growling angrily when his sleeves were immediately soaked with water. Another flick of his wand took care of that, though.

He only hoped that the shock of coldness would be enough. Surprising as it would be to some of his colleagues, he didn't look forward to torturing Potter into awareness. To be on the safe side, he leaned forward and slapped Potter's cheek, once again.

The combined stimulants seemed to have done the trick. Potter gave a soft, protesting groan and the tendrils of magic returned into his skin, although Snape couldn't help noticing that they did so far slower than they had the last time. Obviously, Potter's illness was progressing faster than he had feared.

"And whose fault is that?" Snape muttered while pacing the bathroom up and down, up and down. "Who was too damn stubborn to inform me that he needed help? It is time that Mr High and Mighty accepted that he needs help, even though he is the Eques of the centaurs and an adopted vampire. Even mighty druids need help from us wizards sometimes!"

Casting a diagnosis spell on the unconscious man in the bath tub, Snape gave the results a few paces up and down to build, then cursed once more when he saw the details of Potter's declining health. His energy levels were low, much too low. Even with the illness taken into consideration, this meant that Potter probably hadn't slept or eaten much over the last days. His magic was all but drained, despite the fact that Potter hadn't used it for more than the simple Lumos this afternoon and an apparition to and from Hogwarts.

This didn't look good at all. But at least Snape knew what to do against magical and physical draining.

"You don't move a hand while I fetch your potions," He told the unconscious man in the stern voice usually reserved for teaching. "And if you dare drown while I'm away, I will send both Ayda _and_ Shadow after you to teach you a lesson!"

He shuddered at his own threat, carefully steadied Potter's head against the side of the tub, and rushed downstairs to collect the potions he would need.

Irritation and guilt battled inside him as he chose vial after vial, once more profoundly thankful for Potter's stock of potions that rivalled even the infirmary's supplies, though not his own, private storage room, of course.

Irritation about the way Potter had handled this, keeping his symptoms to himself until it was too late. Guilt because he had neglected his patient, once again.

_I didn't notice his state, or rather noticed it but preferred to ignore the signs_, He thought, angry with himself. _I should have kept one eye on him at all times, especially when I knew how straining the memory of that night must have been for him. But no, I was too busy thinking about my own past and problems. Once more he is neglected because people are too preoccupied with their own business. But no longer. I will make him see sense tonight, and if I have to forcefeed it to him like a potion. _

The distance between the potions lab and the bathroom was not longer than a thought, but the sight in the bathroom made him curse again. Potter's seizures hadn't returned, but now his lips were turning blue from the cold and shivering had taken hold of his body.

_Priorities. First get him to warm up again, then wake him and administer the potions. _

Snape flicked his wand again and ice water was substituted by hot, increasing the temperature of the bath but not quick enough to further disturb his circulation. With another swish, Snape vanished Potter's shirt and trousers.

He did not stare. Snapes didn't stare. He simply lowered his wand and looked at Potter for a long moment, refusing to think any of the clichés that sprung to his mind and tongue at the sight.

Finally, he nodded and returned to his work. _I knew that he had been tortured for months_, He told himself sternly. _This isn't surprising to me, and these aren't the first scars I see. _

But in a way they were. He had seen bad injuries during the two wars, had even received a few that might have earned the attribute "life threatening". He had never seen a body that had been completely destroyed, then carefully knitted together again.

But he had known these things about Potter before. At least theoretically. And they didn't change his current illness, or the fact that Potter's life was more than his private matter.

_He is a tool_, Snape told himself, brutally suppressing the urge to wail about what had been done to this man barely 25. _And I have to do the maintenance_.

Somehow that helped, and he slowly managed to turn his back on Potter, and his mind away from that line of thoughts. _Back to safe territory, then._

"You could have bloody told me that you felt unwell, Potter," He cursed again while he organized his potions on the little table. "But no, you had to behave like a bloody hero and collapse in the middle of your memory!"

He heard a splashing sound behind him and whirled around, ready for another attack of the seizures, but instead he saw Potter opening his eyes very slowly, his hands feebly searching for the edge of the tub.

"At the moment I am lying in a bath tub full of ice water," He rasped. "Very heroic indeed."

"Oh, be quiet," Snape hissed. "The water is getting warmer already."

Potter seemed to be frowning, or it might have been the reaction to a particularly bad headache.

"You are angry with me." He whispered. "Why?"

"Stop talking nonsense and drink these," Snape replied curtly and handed him the first potion.

Potters hands shook as he raised the vial to his lips and drank the content slowly. He didn't move a muscle at the particularly awful taste of it.

"Professor?" He asked again, seemingly more interested in his question than his own state of health.

"Gods, Potter, can't you once concentrate on the things at hand?" Snape asked, then sighed as he realized the futility of his question. "I am angry because you chose to remain quiet although you felt the symptoms of a seizure," He answered.

"You didn't even call out when it hit you. If I hadn't turned around, you could have lain there for minutes without help."

"I'm sorry," Potter answered hoarsely, then obediently swallowed the second and third potion Snape uncorked. "I thought it could wait until we left the pensieve. Getting through those memories fast is important, I know that."

"It's not more important than your health, Potter," Snape hissed. "If you believe that, you missed the whole point of the treatment! What if your core had torn away from you tonight and Voldemort had been resurrected? Every seizure increases that possibility, and you simply stood there inviting it in!"

Despite his already waxen face, Potter paled visibly.

"I didn't think of that," He whispered.

"I'm not surprised," Snape sneered, now safely inside his anger that kept worry, concern and guilt away from him with fiery walls. "Thinking never was your greatest strength, was it?"

Slowly, Potter lifted one hand from the bath tub and placed it on Snape's sleeve.

"I didn't want to worry you, Professor," He said, sounding genuinely sorry.

"Your hands are wet, Potter," Snape answered, but he felt something inside him soften, and he didn't remove his arm from contact.

"That's a noticeable point, Professor," Potter's voice sounded stronger already. Probably the potions kicking in, Snape thought. Or the man's unbelievable resilience. "How long will I have to stay in this tub?"

"I should let you lie here all night, after that stunt," Snape grumbled, but once again he cast a diagnosis spell. The results looked much better already.

"Wouldn't that rather counteract all those strengthening Potions?" Potter asked innocently.

Yes. He definitely was better. The humour was back. Once more, Snape felt rather tempted to snap at the other man, if only to keep him docile and apologetic for a bit longer. But then he remembered the promise to treat him better and more carefully, given to himself less than ten minutes ago, and decided on the professional approach instead.

"Can you walk?" He asked. He wouldn't have minded floating Potter to his bed, but navigating the rather narrow hallway without bumping various body parts into the walls might be tricky. And he _had_ decided to treat Potter better.

"Might just try," Potter shrugged in that irritating way of his and slowly rolled onto his knees in the bathtub. He was doing it just the right way, carefully taking one step after the other, not rushing, and always keeping a firm grip on the edge. Snape wondered how often he had been in such a state of weakness to know his own limits so well, then remembered the scars and turned his face and mind away from the question.

Instead, he flicked his wand again and dried Potter's skin and hair the moment he had left the tub, carefully balancing on the floor's tiles, one hand steadying him against the wall.

"I think I'll manage," He finally announced in the voice of someone who had carefully tested the water of a lake before deciding that it wasn't too cold to swim in.

"Then I can hopefully assume that you will manage to change your clothes on your own, too," Snape commented dryly, silently astonished how fast the atmosphere had changed. One moment he had been rushing wildly through the house in an attempt to save Potter's and nearly everybody else's life, panic tightening his throat, the next moment they were joking around as if nothing of the sort had happened.

It was mad and slightly frightening, but it also gave Snape an inside into how Potter had managed to keep the balance between the chaos of his life and his own dearly desired normalcy intact. He simply rose from wherever he had fallen, tested the water carefully and marched on as if nothing had happened.

_I would envy him if I didn't know how maddening it his for the world around him_.

Impatiently, but trying not to show his impatience, he followed Potter through the corridor and into his bedroom. He turned around when the other man changed into cotton trousers and a black t-shirt, refusing to leave the room until Potter was lying safely on his back. He had been too careless once already this day.

"Bed," He commanded, and Potter obeyed, grinning tiredly.

"You sound like Shadow", He told him.

"Was that a praise or an insult?" Snape asked.

"Both, I think," Potter smiled. "Please sit, Professor. I _would_ conjure you a chair, but as you would probably only use it to hit me, it seems wiser for you to choose the one to your left."

"You won't manage to distract me from your lack of foresight that easily, Potter."

"Would never try."

Potter looked deceivingly small and innocent as he lay in his bed, the blankets hiding the still slightly trembling legs and arms. He reminded Snape very much of the boy he had seen in the memories now, tired and world weary, and he wondered whether it wasn't better to leave him now, let him sleep and regain his strength…

"Oh no, you don't," He growled. "I know you well enough by now to recognize an act. We will talk about this now. It is too important to let it slip like all the other things you don't want to explain."

Potter shrugged, and Snape could have sworn that his face aged until he looked as old and slightly worn as ever. He changed his posture and pressed his hands against the mattress, obviously trying to rise into a sitting position. He changed his mind, however, when his arms gave way under him and he plunged back into the mattress rather gracelessly.

"Whatever you wish, Professor," He conceded as if nothing at all had happened.

"First," Snape began, his voice as thunderous and authoritative as he could manage. He was not beyond acting a little, himself. "I want you to tell me immediately when you feel unusual pain or weakness."

Potter nodded. "Agreed."

"I also want you to refrain from using your magic except in the direst of emergencies," Snape continued, ignoring that Potter had been doing that mostly, anyway. "And I want to put a monitoring charm on you while you sleep."

Snape had expected him to refuse the last demand immediately, but Potter just cocked an eyebrow, his face taking on a thoughtful expression.

"What type of monitoring spell did you think of?" He asked. "One that entails just readings on my magic?"

"At least on your magic," Snape stressed. "Physical monitoring also would be the wiser choice, but I won't go without magical one."

Snape had expected an argument. He knew by now that Potter was the secretive type, although he seemed surprisingly willing to make an exception for his old Potions Professor. But he also should have known how unpredictable Potter's opinions were.

"Alright," He answered lightly and held out his hand as an anchor for the spell.

Snape was tempted to argue the point and demand physical monitoring just because he could, but then decided that the results of the night shouldn't be thrown away like that. He tipped Potter's wrist three times and murmured the incantation, binding it to both him and Potter. If the younger man's magic flared or changed character in any way, Snape would know immediately.

"Now that we have cleared that up," Potter then continued happily. "I hope that you have changed your opinion."

Warily, Snape leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in front of him. He should have known that things wouldn't be that easy. Not with Potter.

"What opinion?" He asked, but the uneasy feeling in his stomach told him he already knew.

"About the ritual that will destroy my soul." Suddenly, even the last innocence and smallness vanished from Potter. His eyes blazed with intent, but his face still wore the serene look he so often sported. "I want you to promise that you will perform it, should the time come."

"No."

Potter sighed. "Professor," He said softly, as he would speak with a child that didn't see sense. "You saw how fast my condition can change. One moment I seemed fine, the next I was very nearly dead. We simply cannot risk it. You must perform the ritual once I have reached a certain point, or Voldemort will be loose again in this world. The whole treatment will use its sense and value if you deny me that promise."

"No."

Snape might not have the magical power Potter could wield under normal circumstances, but he certainly had stubbornness and determination enough to match that of his former pupil. He couldn't be swayed, he couldn't be threatened, and more than twenty years of teaching had shown how unlikely it was for him to change his mind about something. Hating Gryffindor, for example.

"But don't you see…"

"No."

In the face of this absolute decision, Potter's serenity shattered for the first time. His brows drew together into a concerned frown and his lips thinned until they were red threads painted onto his skin. He once more pressed his hands against the mattress, lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak…

And fell back into his pillows with a gasp, his eyelids dropping like the shutters of an empty house.

Snape was by his side in an instant, his wand flashing over Potter's head in a complicated arc, but the spell's results showed no changes. But that only meant that nothing differed from the last spell he had taken, and if Potter had been in pain then…

"Does it hurt?" He asked curtly.

Potter shifted a bit, as if to probe his ability to move. "Nothing I can't handle," He then replied, but his voice was a whisper without strength.

"That's not what I asked. I want to know whether it hurts."

Silence. Snape gazed into Potter's pale face that seemed dead with the brilliant green of his eyes hidden, but he found no trace of pain or even discomfort, only utter relaxation and serenity.

"Yes," The answer finally came. "A lot."

"Then why can't I see that on your face?" Snape asked crossly, cursing himself for this slip of tongue a moment later.

Slowly, one lid cracked open, revealing a hint of green fire, and Potter's lips curled up in amusement.

"You sure have a way with patients," He remarked. "Shouldn't you ask if you can help me in any way?"

"I know that I can't help you beyond what I have given you already," Snape answered, though admitting that galled him. "And I ask out of medical interest. Perhaps it is a by-effect of your illness that makes you look so peaceful."

Potter smiled again, but this time it was a bit sad.

"No," He answered after a moment of silence. "That has nothing to do with this illness. I simply found out that pain is easier to bear when you embrace it."

Snape groaned in irritation, but his hands were busy as they checked Potter's pulse and placed diagnoses spells on him. "Don't give me that saintly nonsense again, Potter. It's too late in the evening for that."

This time Potter actually chuckled, though the sound was cut short by a hacking cough. Automatically, Snape's wand hand moved upwards to magically check the young man's lungs.

"Have you ever noticed that physical pain is less intense if you relax your muscles?" Potter asked quietly.

"Yes," Snape nodded. He had had enough beatings in his life to learn that the hard way.

"It's the same with magical attacks," Potter continued, and from the tone of his voice Snape wasn't sure if he had even heard his answer. "If you relax your mind and try to embrace the pain, it is easier to bear than when you let your magic and your mind fight against it."

His lips moved into the ghost of a smile. "I can't remember how often I twitched on the floor while Voldemort stood above me, inwardly chanting: "Cruciatus is your friend, Cruciatus is your friend"." The grin widened.

"Your concept of humour is rotten, Potter," Snape snapped back. "Now keep your mouth shut and try to sleep. You need it."

"Yes Professor," Potter nodded meekly and closed his eyes.

"And tomorrow you will eat a full breakfast, even if it takes us an hour, do you hear?"

Another hint of a smile. "Yes, Professor. And about your promise…"

"We will talk about it tomorrow, Potter. Now sleep."

And Potter slept.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

A/N: Hoped you liked this chapter! The next one will feature a breakfasting Ayda and some reflection time for our Potions Master.

And take a look at my new lifejournal! You can either click the button 'homepage' on my profile page, or simply search for lioness-kayly on lifejournal dot com. There you will find answers to your questions, update information and all the stuff that usually clutters up lifejournal accounts…

Review!


	21. Working on the People Thing

**Working on the People Thing**

The first thing the morning brought – apart from the rising sun that blinded Snape while he sat in the back garden, brooding – was Ayda.

"Master Potions Master," She greeted him while walking over to the house and opening the back door as if she owned the place. "I see you haven't given up on Harry, yet."

"Mistress Secret Leader of the British Druids," He replied and followed her, not bothering to hide his dislike at her presence. "I see you haven't, either."

But Ayda just chuckled. "Now I see where Harry's sudden bursts of sarcasm stem from," She commented lightly and sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes firmly on Snape.

"I'm glad to say that I have nothing to do with that matter," He said just as lightly. "For I never detected a trace of humour in him when he still unnerved me with his presence."

"I'm just glad I met him after that phase was over, then," She grinned. "For what he told me about his descents into self pity, they must have been rather impressive."

"Unforgettable," Snape agreed dryly, and, before he even realized what he was doing, served her tea.

"Thank you dear," She nodded happily and he could have hit himself. _Gods_, he thought with sudden panic, _If it goes on like this, I will soon start grinning stupidly like Potter!_

"You looked tired," She suddenly announced, looking him up and down critically. "Anything I should know about?"

"Apart from the fact that Potter had another seizure last night, worse than all the others, because he was too stubborn to tell me in time?" Snape answered, his voice dripping acid. "No. Nothing of particular importance. Only that he has decided to destroy his soul in a ritual if we can't heal him in time."

"Oh dear, we _are_ a bit tense today, aren't we?" She chirped in the dreadful imitation of a normal, cheerful woman in her sixties. Snape couldn't completely suppress a shudder. If she offered him a bun now, he would simply bolt from the room.

"Being asked to kill your ex-pupil does that to you, yes," He snapped back and tried very hard to drown himself in his tea.

It didn't work, of course. And Ayda didn't go away either.

"So you're unhappy about being the one chosen to end his life and soul?" She asked, some of the unnaturalness vanishing from her voice.

He gritted his teeth. Where was Potter when he needed him?

"You could phrase it that way," He sneered.

Silence.

He was glad about it, of course, but something in the atmosphere of the room told him that it wouldn't last. She wouldn't simply get up and leave again. If Snape had learned anything about Potter's friends, it was that they were all very persistent. They had to be, of course, being friends to Potter.

"Among the druids, it is considered the greatest of honours to be chosen as the executioner of a death," Ayda said, in a tone so totally different from before that Snape lifted his head and gazed at her in astonishment. "It is considered the highest trust someone can place into another being. Usually, only members of the family and the closest friends are granted that trust."

"And that is supposed to make me feel better?" Snape inquired, his brow raised in silent scepticism.

"It should, yes," Ayda answered quietly. "He _did_ ask you officially, didn't he?"

Snape nodded.

"Then he didn't choose this lightly. It is a serious wish, and by following his will you honour everything he believes in. Quite literally in this case, as you protect not only his dignity, but also the safety he fought for."

Snape looked at her, hard, then shook his head in exasperation. "I always hated this multicultural nonsense," He announced decisively. "And I see no reason why I should adopt some obscure druid position on the honours of suicide when the whole thing seems perfectly clear to me. He wants to die. More than just die, he wants to destroy his own _soul_. And he wants _me_ to do it."

"And you refuse."

"Of course I do," Snape barked, rose to his feet abruptly and decided to prepare the breakfast he had threatened Potter with. He rummaged through the cupboards, producing plates and utensils, absentmindedly searching for the rolls Potter had baked yesterday morning. "I can't simply kill Potter off, just because he wants it. Especially not since I don't know for certain _why_ he wants it!"

He found two jars of jam, obviously house made, butter, ham and cheddar and arranged them on the table. The rolls were in a little wooden box and he cancelled the preserving charm on them before they joined the rest of the food.

When he looked over at Ayda the next time, she was calmly buttering a roll. "Shadow told you about the suicide attempts, then," She commented. "I'd like an omelette, if you're already preparing breakfast."

"I don't know how to make omelettes," Snape admitted, then shook his head as if to clear it from the spider webs of madness. "And omelettes are besides the point anyway. He is only twenty-five! He has barely had a life, and now he asks me to end it because he couldn't do it on his own!"

Ayda lowered her roll to the table, turned her head towards him and fixed her eyes on his angry face.

"You are being completely irrational, Master Snape," She told him calmly. "And your logic is flawed, which is even more disappointing in a man like you. First of all: He had a life richer and more beautiful than many people manage to live in a hundred years. He will be remembered by thousands of creatures, and he changed the worlds in more than one way. Second: The acceptance of death and the wish for it are not the same thing. Don't confuse the younger Harry with the man upstairs. He is rather mad, I know," She bared her teeth in a broad grin, and gold glittered in the morning sun. "But he is not suicidal. That phase in his life is over. Third: I am glad you like him…"

"I do not _like _him!" Snape protested sharply. "Just because I don't intend to join the long line of people who abused him…"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Ayda interrupted, still unnaturally calm. She was holding the jars of jam in her hand, very much resembling a surreal Hamlet who unexpectedly had to choose between two different skulls. "You like him. You feel compassion and pity for what happened to him. You want to protect him. But although he would have needed all that back in school, it is not going to work with the Potter upstairs. Though with his illness you will at least be safe from being hexed." She hesitated for a moment, then nodded as if she had come to a momentous decision. "Yes. Raspberry, I think."

"He hexed you?" Snape asked, finding it difficult to imagine that anybody would challenge Ayda in such a way.

"He _tried_ to hex me," She corrected amiably. "I have always been unusually agile for my age. And of course, that gave me the right to hex him back." She grinned again, and Snape shook his head again. Without the long practice Albus had provided, his brain would have probably exploded by now.

"Back to the topic at hand, Mistress Ayda," He then decided. "I am not going to prove that I don't like him. And he needs…" He simply refused to use the word "compassion" about anything even remotely connected to himself. "acceptance more than anybody else."

"You're confusing the boy in the pensieve with the Potter upstairs," Ayda disagreed and bit into her roll. The next moment, she groaned in pleasure and rolled her eyes. To Snape's mind, it looked rather obscene. "His jam got even better! He added a trace of cinnamon, I believe – my idea, of course."

Snape could feel his stomach grumble with impatience, demanding a roll with raspberry jam for itself. But Snape would not eat breakfast while discussing Potter's death. He had certainly more decorum than that, thank you very much.

"I can imagine it is difficult," Ayda now continued between bites, her speech slightly slurred by the contents of her mouth. "To find out all that you missed about the past and still keep in mind that the Potter by your side is 25 and has dealt with his – how do you wizards call it? – issues. But it is still true."

"How would you know that?" Snape demanded, eyeing the rolls warily.

"Because I was with him when he picked the pieces up and put them back together," She answered simply. "And I was with him when they broke once more and he had to do it all over again, and again."

Snape remembered that Potter had lived with the druids for a number of years, then. And he remembered Shadow telling him that Ayda had helped Potter more than he ever could have.

"How did you change his wish to kill himself?" He asked carefully, not sure if he wanted to know. Not sure if he wanted to be dragged into all this even deeper than before.

"He did that himself," Ayda answered. "I only told him to stop acting like a stupid wizard and start behaving like a tree."

Snape sighed, sat down and took a roll from the little wooden box. "Care to hand me the butter?" He asked and received a brilliant grin.

"There you are," Ayda practically crooned and handed him the butter. "Death is no reason to miss a decent meal."

Snape growled. "I don't like Potter, and I do not like you, either," He announced darkly, and Ayda grinned again.

"That I don't mind," She answered comfortably. "Just as long as you find out how to make me my omelette."

"Just wake Potter and tell him to do it," Snape said. "He likes playing the house elf."

"He likes cooking for his friends," Ayda corrected him. "Again, you mistake the cause for the result, Master Snape. And I wouldn't like to wake him."

She hesitated for a moment, then reached for her bag and withdrew a little wooden box, not unlike the one Potter had used for the rolls. "Give him that when he wakes, and tell him I'll be along in a few days. And hand me a fresh cup."

Snape decided to refuse, but then found that he had already stood and walked over to the cupboard. Stopping the motion now would look stupid, he realized, and picked up the cup Ayda had demanded. To his surprise, she lifted a tea spoon to her temple and withdrew a long, silver thread of thoughts from her head. She dropped it in the cup with a satisfied nod.

"Take a look at this when you have the time," She ordered. "It will explain a few things about Potter to you, I think. And take this."

Once more she rummaged through her bag. When she raised her hand, a leather band was dangling from it, and fastened on it was…

"A whistle?" Snape asked, and she nodded.

"We do not use owls for our post. There's a contract between us and the doves instead. Doves are always around, other than those bloody useless owls. Simply blow the whistle and a dove will come to you and collect your message. When things get difficult," She grinned fiercely. "And they _will_ get difficult, after all Potter is involved, the druids will follow their leader and his appointed guardian. In other words: We will come if you ask for help, Master Potions Master."

She placed the whistle on the table, grabbed another roll and the jar of strawberry jam, letting both slip into her bag without even trying to conceal the action, and left the kitchen through the back door with a merry wave. Once more, Snape shook his head, but this time it was in resignation.

"Inform Shadow, please," He shouted after her and saw her head bob in the distance, probably acknowledging the request. Or biting into that stolen roll.

0o0

Once Snape had recovered from the shock some overconfident mother had named Ayda, he _did_ prepare a full breakfast, although he left out the omelette, and arranged it on a tray, which he floated behind him up the stairs and to Potter's bedroom.

The man was still sleeping, not surprisingly after the sleeping potion Snape had administered last night. A barked "Potter" and a spell to open the curtains changed that, however.

He felt totally ridiculous as he placed the tray on Potter's legs and ordered him to eat in the tone Madam Pomfrey always used in cases like this. But obviously Potter didn't share his sentiment. He simply offered him the chair again and eyed his breakfast with obvious pleasure.

"Do you realize this is the first time you offer me something to digest that won't taste absolutely vile?" He asked brightly. Obviously, the long hours of sleep had done much to restore his happy mood.

"I would have added raspberry jam, but Ayda stole it," Snape grumbled as he settled down on his chair.

"Ayda was here? Why didn't you wake me?"

"She didn't want to. But she told me to give you this," Snape lifted the box and placed it besides the tray. "She also presented me with a dove-whistle. At least I didn't get another tattoo."

Potter shook his head. "The druids are much more pragmatic than the vampires," He said. "With them, you have to pay for the tattoo."

His words were light and unconcerned, but he opened the box with obvious anticipation.

"Brilliant," He commented happily on something that seemed to Snape nothing but a bunch of leaves. Even when Potter lifted out what had to be the real content of the box, Snape found it hard to see what his enthusiasm had been all about.

What Potter held in his hand was nothing but a flat, grey stone, after all.

"This is a get-better-stone," Potter explained as he moved the stone from one hand to the other and turned it around to let Snape see the upper side. Its surface was marked by red, yellow and green finger prints. "Druid children love to send them to those who are ill, to show them that they are remembered and thought of," Potter smiled. "Though I always thought they just liked a pretext to get their hands dirty."

"Charming," Snape commented, not bothering to hide his disgust. Children were bad enough when their hands were clean.

"Isn't it?" Potter asked, grinning at Snape's obvious displeasure. "It is from Catherine, the girl who will marry me one day."

He looked up, laughter turning his eyes grass green like a dewy meadow. "She is eight years old and very decisive about it. I had no say in the matter at all."

Suddenly, Snape remembered a bushy-haired, bossy little know-it-all that would rush through Hogwarts' corridors with an entourage of two boys, telling them what to do and how to do it with incredible self confidence. He had to hide a smile. It seemed that bossy girls were drawn to Potter.

"If she is so decisive about it, I suggest you finish your breakfast and get ready for another set of memories. We shouldn't disappoint the lady of your heart, after all."

Although Snape's words had dripped sarcasm, Potter smiled again and nodded as if to show Snape that his words were taken seriously.

"Of course, Professor," He agreed. "I will be down in a moment."

It took him longer than just a moment, but twenty minutes later a freshly showered and cleaned Potter climbed down the stairs to the living room. Without a word, Snape stood and led the way to the potions lab. They had lost enough time already, and putting off the inevitable had never been his cup of tea.

He sneaked a glance at Potter as he entered the lab after him. He looked pale, worn and still tired, as if the long hours of sleep had done him little good. But there was also the calm and serenity that nearly always surrounded him these days, and when Snape met his eyes he could see concentration fuelling a steadily burning flame of determination, and will to end this.

He nodded sharply. They had less time than he had hoped for, and the development of Potter's illness was most worrisome, but as long as Potter could fight his weakness, they would move on. He would just have to keep an eye on the younger man.

"After you, Potter," He said and stepped away from the pensieve, in which the silvery mist of a memory writhed and danced. Fourth year it would be, and Snape expected a rather boring sequence of Triwizard Tasks to lie before them.

"Fourth year," Potter whispered, as if echoing Snape's thoughts, his hand on the edge of the stone bowl. "Brace yourself, professor. We're going to meet the Wizard of Oz."

0o0

A/N:

I'm sorry about the long silence, everybody, but life is pure stress at the mometn - to put it mildly. I suspect updates to be extremely slow until Christmas, and then not much faster until April. For details- both on the reasons why and the exact dates - please see my lifejournal, which I will try to update regularly. You can access it via my profile page, or simply search for lioness-kayly on lifejournal.

Aside from that: Thank you all so very much for your many reviews! And please be patient with me...


	22. And He Shall Rise From the Cauldron

**A/N:** Good news, my faithful readers: I've overcome the writing block caused by stress, illness and the difficulties this chapter held for me. I am still not satisfied with it, but I simply didn't dare leaving you without an update for any longer. Perhaps I will slightly rewrite it sometime in the future, but at the moment all I want is to thank you for your trust, your patience and your many reviews!

Updates will continue to be slow over the next months, but you must never worry that I would abandon this story – I solemnly swear I will finish it, although it might take some time.

And now, let's go and meet the Wizard of Oz:

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**And He Shall Rise from the Cauldron**

Snape opened his mouth to ask who the hell that Oz-person was, but then he saw the dark sky above them, and the graves, standing crookedly on the dark earth, and Cedric Diggory, his wand drawn, the light of triumph still blazing in his eyes.

And he knew.

Although he didn't want to.

"I had expected your Triwizard tasks first," Snape commented quietly, if only to break the powerful silence that was lying heavily on them.

"Not terrifying enough," Potter answered calmly, but some underlying tension in his voice told Snape that even Saint Potter wasn't entirely unaffected by the situation.

"Here they come," He suddenly whispered, and Snape whirled around from his nervous study of Potter the boy, to see a cloaked figure with a bundle in his arms approaching them. One look at the stooping figure, its slightly hesitant walk and movement of the arms was enough to assure Snape of his identity.

Pettigrew. And in his arms the abomination that was to become Lord Voldemort once more, the terror of the British Wizarding World.

A scream to his left made Snape turn back sharply to the Potter boy, a scream of such excruciating pain, such utter agony that Snape expected the Fading to start here and now. But there was no sign of the eerie light rising around the fallen figure that desperately crawled at his face, and after a moment Snape remembered that Potter had always been affected like this by the Dark Lord's presence.

He had simply always imagined that the boy had exaggerated the agony it caused him.

"Kill the spare."

A high, thin voice now commanded, and Snape could feel Potter the man by his side shudder. He stretched out a hand, as if to stop Wormtail, but realized the futility of it and let the arm drop to his side.

"Avada Kedavra!" Pettigrew shouted, and while disbelieving realization painted a mask of horror on the younger Potter's face, the elder one's sank into passivity.

"The first of oh so many," He whispered, or Snape thought that he whispered it, then turned around and walked slowly towards his younger counterpart, whom Pettigrew slammed against a marble headstone.

"Have you ever seen a resurrection ritual?" Potter-the-man asked conversationally, his side leaning against the stone that marked Tom Riddle's grave. "It is a ghastly thing, even for a grown wizard. Nothing to be watched by children, certainly. But as I was one of the main ingredients…"

He shrugged. "Rather reminds me of these 19th century adventure tales, where explorers were caught by cannibals and eaten, but I must say…"

Snape sent him a single, burning look, and he fell silent immediately, understanding in a heartbeat that this moment was difficult not only for himself. More than one life had changed because of this night, and though Snape hadn't been present, the events at Little Hangleton had meant more than three years of slavery for him.

Snape walked over to Potter-the-boy, who was bound by tight cords from head to feet, a dazed, slightly dead look in his eyes. Snape understood how the boy must feel. Even for him, who had listened to the account of this night for so many times that he could have choreographed it himself, everything went too fast, Pettigrew's movements a blur in the corner of his eye while he desperately tried to keep his concentration on both Potters, to ignore what went on behind him.

But against his will, his own memory supplied him with images that were dancing across his vision – the things he had read about this ritual, the face and body of the monster that was to become his master again. His own memory, sitting in the stands of the Triwizard Tournament, waiting for the flashy idiocy to be finally over, when suddenly, his Dark Mark had flared into full life again…

He heard the words of the ritual, pronounced with a shaky voice, and saw Potter-the-boy's horror, his rising panic and pain as Pettigrew's knife pierced the crook of his arm, and his desperate plea that the thing in the cauldron would drown, that it would somehow still be alright, that this nightmare he had suddenly entered would give way for reality again.

But Snape didn't need the high, cold voice of his Lord once more commanding his slave to know the end, and with an instinct he had thought forgotten, he stepped behind a large black headstone, as if to hide from the inevitable, and turned his face towards the cauldron and its inhabitant.

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

It was a moment you wanted to freeze, to hold it still and tell yourself that this was it. This was the point that had changed everything, that had begun the descent into darkness, spiralling them deeper and deeper into a hopelessness that had destroyed even the lives of the survivors.

But destiny never works this way. When it comes to visit you, it is fast, merciless and without hesitation, and it leaves you just as quickly, with nothing but the broken shards of your hopes in your hands.

All too soon Voldemort had called his followers, and Snape remembered the blinding flash of pain that had run through his body, the urgent wish to disapparate that had suddenly arisen within him. He had refused it, then, and he refused the memory's power over him now.

He was not a spy any longer, not bound to the shadows and silent, dirty little secrets any more. Although this man had been his master for an endless lifetime, he had perished at last, and Snape had regained his free will.

He stepped away from the gravestone whose shadow had hidden him, and approached the memory of his Lord with measured steps. Then, he lifted his head and looked right into the snake lord's eyes.

Although Snape had served him for years, he had seldom dared to do this. Too great was the danger of Voldemort catching his eyes and punishing him thoroughly for this disrespect.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Potter with an unreadable expression. Whiter than a skull his face was, with wide, livid scarlet eyes, and a nose that was as flat as a snake's, with slits for nostrils and lines of cruelty carved into his leathery skin.

He looked like a God, a being more powerful than anyone could have imagined.

A wizard who had conquered death.

But now that he looked closer, Snape recognized the madness in his countenance, the terrible fire of wrath that no water could still, and something else, something Snape couldn't find a name for.

While Voldemort ranted and seethed at his Death Eaters, telling them for the first time the story of his downfall that he would repeat often enough in the next three years for Snape to know it by heart, Snape's eyes remained fixed on him, watching, analysing and judging him without the whirlwind of feelings that had usually accompanied his presence.

"Yes," Voldemort now finished his story and turned back to his prisoner, curling his lipless mouth. "Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honour."

"Do you see it?" Potter-the-man suddenly whispered from his side, and Snape had to gather all his self-control not to twitch with surprise.

"What?" He asked rather harshly.

"The fear in his eyes," Potter answered. "You see, that was something I only understood a lot later, perhaps only in his dungeons. This terrible, terrible fear."

For a moment, Snape thought he had misunderstood and half turned to see the face of Potter-the-boy, sobbing and gasping helplessly, a bundle of pain and despair.

_He _certainly was afraid, the look in his eyes couldn't be interpreted anyway else. But behind the cloud of fear, Snape saw his eyes pale in the familiar green of the killing curse, a sure sign of Potter's anger boiling and writhing inside him.

Then he turned back to the Dark Lord, and as if Potter-the-boy's eyes had cleared his mind, he saw what Potter-the-man had spoken about.

Lord Voldemort was afraid of Harry Potter, the scrawny fourteen-year-old at his mercy.

It was a feeling so deeply buried beneath his arrogance and will of power that Voldemort himself had probably never encountered it, except in his darkest hours of weakness and pain.

But it was there. And when he saw its traitorous twinkling, Snape realized that Voldemort hadn't used Potter's blood to increase his power, or to impress his servants. He had used it in order to conquer his own fear.

Or at least he had tried to conquer it.

"And here he is…the boy you all believed had been my downfall…" Voldemort mockingly said and gave a strange little half bow, like the director of a freak show presenting his most valuable exhibit.

"It is a pity that I was so young, and mad with fear," Potter mused, watching his nemesis closely. "If I had played my cards right that evening, I could have destroyed the last faith his Death Eaters had in him." He suddenly chuckled. "I came very close to that, anyway, when I managed that vanishing act. But with the right kind of persuasion…"

He paused, and as if Voldemort had waited for it, he lifted his wand, the flame of madness flickering higher in his eyes, and spoke one word, delicately lengthening it until it became a caress of pain and death.

"_Crucio!"_

Snape shuddered. He hadn't known about that Cruciatus, hadn't realized that Potter had felt the force of the curse so young. Stepping closer to the twitching, writhing body that lay on the ground, he strained for any signs of the illness, for what could better explain the Fading than the horror of this dark graveyard combined with the most painful curse he knew?

But although Potter had sank against the ropes that were still tying him to the headstone, his eyes rolling back in forehead and his head lolling to the side as if he hadn't the strength to lift it, there was no sign of theFfading.

And the elder Potter, instead of showing a reaction to his first pain curse, was watching Voldemort quietly, intently, like a politician might watch a member of the opposite party.

„You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me," Voldemort now said. „But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger."

He paused, and Snape could feel the silence closely around them like something physical, an invisible being waiting in the background, watching them carefully. "Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."

"And that was where he made his biggest mistake," Potter-the-man commented quietly, watching his younger self's pitiable attempts to stand. "I still believe that the prophecy didn't refer to that night in 1981, but to this exact moment. It was here that he marked me as an equal, as someone worthy of duelling him."

He shook his head as if in disappointment, his eyes on the Dark Lord. "He really should have just killed me like the helpless child I was," He said. "It would have proven his power well enough. But no, he had to humiliate me, he had to give a performance."

Snape nodded, as some questions he had always harboured this night clicked into place.

"He had to prove it to himself," He murmured quietly. "Although he always told us different, he _did_ believe in your strange power after all. That was why he wanted the prophecy so badly. And that was why…"

"Why he wanted this duel," Potter finished the sentence with a nod. "Or at least that's what I think today." He sighed.

"In that respect," He said quietly. "Voldemort and Dumbledore are very much the same. They are not satisfied with getting what they want how they want it. They feel their victory is only complete when their victims – or opponents – prove them right in the end."

Snape wanted to disagree forcefully, to argue that under no circumstances could Albus Dumbledore be compared to Voldemort, but then he remembered that Albus, with his unwillingness to remove Potter from the Tournament, was nearly as much responsible for Potter's presence at this graveyard as Voldemort.

"Only think," Potter said, as if he had sensed Snape's doubt and wanted to drive his point home. "Only think how often he told us that whatever he had decided, whatever he had done, was best for us. And not only that," He continued after a second, his eyes darken with memories. "He wanted more than just make us believe it. He wanted us to agree. He wanted exculpation. Just as Voldemort wants me to prove his point for him right now."

Snape frowned. Something wasn't right with this argument, although it sounded worryingly logical to him. He remembered what Albus had said right after Potter had returned to Hogwarts, how he had tried to convince the young man that help had been his real reason for coming to the school all along…

But that wasn't possible. Albus had remained the wise, powerful wizard he was precisely because he was willing to bear the consequences of his own actions, because he left a choice to the people around him, despite his power.

_But what choice did Potter have?_

"Look at him, teaching me to bow," Potter chuckled, watching his younger self's spine cruelly moved by the power of Voldemort's wand.

"He was a drama-queen, really," He said with something strangely alike to sympathy. "And he never considered how much could go wrong with his act."

The shrill screams of Potter under the Cruciatus interrupted him. Snape closed his eyes, not able to bear the pain that was displayed in the boy's face. He had thought Potter's serene expression during his attacks irritating, but now he was glad for it. Never could he have acted as swiftly and decisively in the face of such pain, such helpless vulnerability and despair.

"A little break," Voldemort said sweetly, and Snape wanted to stop his mocking words with a Cruciatus of his own. "A little pause…that hurt, didn't it, Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

And just like he had in the memory of Potter's second year, Snape saw in the boy's face the certainty of his own death, a grim, dark knowledge.

But this time, there was no resignation mixed into it, no relief or passivity, only a fierce determination that he would not play along with Voldemort's game, that he would not be mocked like this.

"Answer me," Voldemort now demanded, his face turning dark and angry in the face of Potter's refusal. "_Imperio!_"

"And there he goes again," Potter-the-man commented with no little exasperation while his younger self's face became slack all of a sudden. "He could have just duelled me, considering that his knowledge and power of spells was far superior to mine till the end. But no, that wasn't enough for him. What he had to do was begin a duel of wills with me, the one thing that needed no experience, only determination."

Something twitched in the boy's face, Snape suddenly noticed with growing disbelief. He should have obediently answered Voldemort's question long ago, but instead his body began to sway softly, his face contorting and flattening in a strange rhythm that was growing steadily faster.

"And of course," Potter-the-man said. "He never imagined that he could lose."

"I WON'T!" The young Potter suddenly shouted, and his face was alive again, filled with reality and pain and anger.

Snape's eyes flickered across the graveyard, and he saw his own shock mirrored in many a face.

"You withstood him," Snape whispered, not sure if he could trust his voice in the face of the impossible. "You withstood the Dark Lord's will! But…Albus never told me about this!"

Potter shrugged. "Why should he," He answered matter-of-factly. "It wasn't in his interest that you should respect me, Professor."

As Snape watched in growing disbelief the sudden movements of Potter-the-boy, who had obviously understood that he could not hope to answer Voldemort's spells but still used all his dexterity and quickness to duck, roll away and hide from the Dark Lord's wand, he found that respect was exactly the right word to describe what he felt.

Nobody withstood the Dark Lord. Nobody answered his attacks, nobody questioned his orders. Even Lucius Malfoy, the proudest wizard Snape had ever known, would take the humiliation with a bowed head. And still this scrawny boy was cowering behind a gravestone, cowering and judging the distance between himself and Voldemort, waiting for the right moment…

And not only that, Snape realized with a growing feeling of surrealism as he watched Potter, he was not only waiting for the right time to evade and flee, he was preparing to defend himself, to stand up to the mightiest wizard on earth, he was going to attack!

"Expelliarmus!" Potter-the-boy cried out, flinging himself away from the gravestone, just as the high, cold voice of the Dark Lord gave an answering cry: "_Avada Kedavra!"_

"You tried to disarm him?" Snape asked, his own voice shrill and uncontrolled in his ears.

Potter shrugged again. "But it worked, at least in a way," He answered and grinned his typical, Potterish grin.

Snape watched in silence the scene unfolding before him. He had known all of this before, had even seen parts of it in a pensieve, but still the golden bow of the Priori Incantatem, the view of James Potter's and Lily's shadowy forms stunned him.

He saw Potter stand, and endure, then wrench his wand away with unbelievable strength and zig-zag along the graves like a rabbit, pointing his wand wildly behind him and still managing to hit Avery, who fell to the ground with an undignified _thump_.

"Stand aside!" Voldemort shrieked. "I will kill him! He is mine!"

Then, in the golden light of the portkey, the one man who had ever defied Voldemort in a duel and lived to tell the tale vanished: Harry Potter, thin fourth year with a bruised leg, clutching both the corpse of Cedric Diggory and the cup that had cost his life to his body.

And the graveyard vanished once more into the mists of the past.


	23. Shadow and Darkness

**Shadow and Darkness**

When the mad chaos of his thoughts had subsided a bit, Snape found himself sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a cup of tea and vaguely recalling that Potter had placed him there with a stern advice to 'relax a bit'.

Really, who was the patient here?

But whatever objections Snape might have about the situation on principle, he had to admit that the graveyard memory had disturbed him – more than the realization of Potter's abuse through his relatives, more even than the image of Dumbledore crouching behind the pillar in Potter's first year.

He wasn't sure what caused his painful reaction – having to watch Voldemort's resurrection? The knowledge that a mere child had dared what none of the self declared 'superior purebloods' had ever even thought of? Or was it the fact that once more Dumbledore's manipulative nature had been revealed? Not that he accepted Potter's explanation blindly, of course, but it was worrisome to realize that he couldn't disregard it completely, however much he wanted to.

When he had finally quietened his thoughts and relaxed enough to actually drink the tea, not just hold onto the cup as an anchor to reality, he made his way to the living room, where he found a completely relaxed Potter, stretched out on his sofa and with a muggle paperback novel of all things in his hands, which seemed to fascinate him deeply.

He looked up questioningly when Snape stepped through the doorway.

"How are you feeling?" He asked with his usual polite interest, and didn't seem to mind the grunt Snape uttered instead of a reply.

"_Stiller_, by Max Frisch," He then said, pointing at the novel, as if he honestly expected Snape to be interested in his reading habits. "I'm concentrating on German writers this year. Did you ever read anything by him? He's rather brilliant, although I believe his style can be much better appreciated in his…"

"Why do you think Dumbledore didn't want me to respect you," Snape interrupted, not bothering with politeness and knowing Potter well enough by now to be sure that he wouldn't mind. "If I remember correctly, he used to spend hours and hours with lecturing me about the importance of leaving the past behind and realizing that you were not your father."

Potter nodded, as if acknowledging a valid point, and closed his novel carefully, placing it on a small table besides the sofa.

"That's certainly true," He agreed. "But has he ever, in all those years, tried to actually _change_ your opinion? I can speak only for myself, of course," He continued hastily. "But I remember quite clearly that he never gave me any reason for the need to trust you, and the only detail about your past he felt necessary to offer was that about your near-encounter with Remus, which, after all, wouldn't serve very much to heighten my affection to you."

He smiled, and tilted his head in an innocent way that seemed to indicate a naïve surprise. "Which is strange, really, since he knew well enough how much I hated bullies. All he would have had to tell me thus was the fact that the Marauder's picked on you whenever they could."

He shrugged. "At least that fact was enough in fifth year for me to question both Sirius and Remus, changing my view on my father quite a lot along the way. But perhaps he has told you things about me that would decrease your dislike?" He asked, just as innocently. "About my family life, perhaps? Or about the fact that the first family being friendly to me were Gryffindors, thus motivating me to choose Gryffindor as my own house? No? I didn't think so," He answered his own question lightly, even amusedly.

Snape remained silent. He didn't feel like entering into one of their little arguments now, especially not since Potter was absolutely right. With the things Snape had found out by now, it would have been impossible for him not to mellow towards the little first year. And still, Albus had done nothing but to increase the antagonistic feelings between them.

He shook his head, refusing to ponder these thoughts when there was so much real work to do, and as if Potter had only waited for this sign, he rose from the sofa and offered Snape another of his friendly, serene smiles.

"Shall we return to the pensieve, then?" He asked. "After all, time is a-flying."

They worked through two more memories before it was time for dinner, both taking place in Potter's fifth year, both concerned with visions of Potter. The experience left Snape feeling slightly sick.

It had turned out that the visions, unlike dementor attacks, were no invisible things for Snape, and the view of the giant Nagini attacking Arthur Weasley had been enough to quell Snape's appetite. But he had promised himself to make his patient eat regular meals, and if it took a guest at his table to make Potter comply that seemed a small enough price for Snape to pay.

One reading on Potter's energy levels after dinner convinced Snape that they wouldn't attempt the next memory tonight – if his chronology wasn't wrong that would mean the Ministry and the Hall of Prophecy.

Which also meant Sirius Black's untimely death and Potter's next confrontation with Voldemort. Not the sort of thing to be tackled by a man tired and stressed already.

Which was why Snape, with the commanding voice more than a decade of teaching had helped him developed, ordered Potter to bed, attaching several humiliating threats to the order just in case of.

He could barely refrain from telling the other man that he wasn't to read late into the night, but he found with relief that he still had enough dignity to prevent that.

Thank the Gods.

But Potter only grinned, and nodded, and wished him a good night, answering with an order not to 'work too hard' which Snape didn't grace with a reaction.

He spent a good ten minutes going through the kitchen's storage room and deciding that he would have to organize some better way of feeding them – it was madness to let Potter waste his strength and time on cooking, no matter how much the man seemed to enjoy it.

When he had fixed himself another pot of tea and decided that there was still enough food left for the next day, he returned to the potions lab, to work on a little theory of his.

He was painfully aware that no potion could stop or even slow the development of Potter's illness. But the energizing potions he had administered the day before had caused him to wonder whether boosting Potter's energy level wasn't a viable approach to increasing his patient's resistance.

After all, every day might matter to them.

He was bent deeply over his notes, so lost in thought that the velvety voice in his back took him completely by surprise.

"Master Snape," The voice greeted him, and before its tone had registered with Snape, he had already whirled around and pointed his wand as the possible threat.

But it was only Shadow.

_Only_, his brain whispered as it caught up with the events. _You're talking about the Prince of Vampires here_.

"My Lord," He answered quickly, and re-sheathed his wand, although for a moment he was badly tempted to compare the Prince with another meddlesome guest that didn't bother to knock.

Not a good idea, that.

He bowed, a short inclination of his head, since it was now his home the noble guest had come to. That thought, the fact that he had considered Potter's house home, if only in questions of etiquette, again made his mind stumble and stutter, and a myriad of absolutely inappropriate things to say popped into his consciousness.

He settled for the least inappropriate one.

"Potter told me you usually didn't leave your house alone," He said, not phrasing it as a question. It was bad manners to ask your guest about anything but his journey and health.

"Oh, but I am not alone," Shadow replied silkily. "Twenty of my best and oldest vampires are with me."

He smiled, a sudden flash of white teeth amid dark red lips. "It was quite difficult to decide whom I was to leave behind, this time. They all wanted to see Harry."

"I see," Snape answered quietly, wondering how he felt about twenty-one vampires who had entered the house without him noticing. "I assume Harry gave you full access to his house?" He asked, being sure of the answer before he saw Shadow's smile widen.

"We are his friends after all," The Prince replied with a knowing smile.

"Of course," Snape said, not even feeling resigned. In Potter-Land, this answer made complete sense. And he had been lost in Potter-Land for far too long now to not have the madness rub off on him.

He knew that he should have been worried that, right now, they were walking in on a sleeping, defenceless Potter, but somehow he wasn't. He had seen them together, after all, and somehow, the word 'defenceless' wasn't one that he could attach to Potter successfully.

But what surprised him even more was the fact that he wasn't worried overmuch for himself, either. Sure, he was in the presence of one of the oldest dark creatures that was dangerous enough without its rather spectacular mood swings, but after all he had a tattoo, hadn't he?

And that was another of those thoughts which would only make sense in Potter-Land.

Shadow's smile deepened even more, as if he could read Snape's convoluted thoughts. And who knew, perhaps he could.

"How is he, then?" Shadow now asked, leaning against the workbench in a nonchalant gesture, his presence and aura turning the potions lab into a dark palace.

Without even considering to lie or leave out things, Snape told the Prince about the last few days, the memories he had seen and the meeting with Dumbledore, the seizure during last night's memory, and Potter's plan to destroy his own soul.

He wondered for a moment why he felt no qualms to inform one of the darkest creatures on earth in detail, but tricksed and half-truthed his way through the letters of Dumbledore. _Potter-Land_, he then thought and shrugged inwardly.

Shadow's face remained impassive throughout most of the long tale, only when Snape told him of the way Dumbledore had tried to use the Order meeting room to his advantage did he bare his teeth and hiss in a way that reminded Snape of Nagini.

His face was stony when he heard about Potter's plan, and even stonier when Snape told him of the progress the illness had made.

"I see," He finally whispered, a deadly caress that crawled down Snape's spine. "And how are _you_, Master Snape?"

That question took him by surprise, and the insinuation in it hit close enough home that Snape didn't even think before answering it.

"I don't know," He said truthfully. "Around Potter, my state of mind seems to change quicker than my thoughts can follow."

Shadow nodded and relaxed even further, as if the question had been some sort of strange test. Snape only hoped he had passed.

"One of Harry's many gifts," The vampire agreed. "To turn one's world upside down. But frustrating as it must be for you, it isn't always bad. New perspectives are born this way, and new paths are built."

"I know," Snape answered, and found to his own wonder that this answer was truthful, too. "But he still drives me mad."

"Which is a sure sign of his presence," Shadow agreed again, then let the silence between them.

"He told me about Kinnairds Head," Snape finally continued, not because he felt the need to break this strange, companionable silence, but because he wanted to.

Shadow just nodded. "I knew he would," He said quietly. "And I'm sure you will find out more about his past than any of us know before this is over."

Now that was an encouraging idea, Snape thought darkly. If there was one thing he _didn't _want, it was further contact with Potter's world and past.

"I just don't understand him," He growled suddenly, his frustration rising to the surface.

"Oh, but I'm sure you do," Shadow disagreed mildly. "You just don't yet dare admit it to yourself. But once you have assembled all the parts of the puzzle, you will know him better than I ever could."

For a moment, Snape bristled, a caustic remark on the tip of the tongue. He didn't accept that sort of second hand wisdom from anybody, not even from Albus. But then he remembered to whom he was talking, and that Shadow had lived more than a few human lifetimes and snorted bitterly instead.

"Did you talk to Ayda?" He asked, and was rewarded with a roguish grin that reminded him very much of Potter. Only that Potter didn't look as if he wanted to eat you when he grinned like this.

The combination of sharp teeth and boyish amusement really was frightening.

"I have no idea why you ask that," Shadow deadpanned, then straightened from the place where he had leaned.

"It is time for me to greet Harry, I think," He announced and walked, no, glided, to the door of the lab. "He must get his sleep, after all."

He was nearly through the door when he turned around once more, and the sudden seriousness in his voice shook Snape's composure more than his smiles had.

"I _did_ talk to many people over the last days, Master Snape," He said quietly. "And we all agree that in the end you will do the right thing for Harry. We trust you."

_Now what the hell is that supposed to mean_, Snape thought dazedly as he followed the Prince through the kitchen into the living room, where a wild assembly of vampires was crowding around Potter, who was sitting on the sofa with a lopsided smile, his expression changing from real pleasure about his visitors to downright frustration at their behaviour.

It seemed that Shadow had finally told them about Potter's condition, and the amounts of arguments about what to do rivalled the offers of food, water or blood towards Potter. It appeared that the vampires couldn't decide whether to feed or turn him.

_Rescue me,_ Potter's eyes seemed to tell him, and Snape could see a lingering weariness beneath the amused smile.

_Now there,_ he thought, _You can read Potter well enough. Only not when he is concerned with you_.

Although he wasn't quite sure how to fulfil Potter's silent wish. One didn't treat immortals like a bunch of first years, after all. Or at least, Snape didn't.

"What do you think you're doing," Shadow thundered before Snape could even open his mouth. "Bustling around Harry like a herd of hens! Out with you! Wait for me in the garden!"

Alhtough reluctance stood clear in their faces, the vampires obeyed their leader. From all sides hands were touching Potter, voices were whispering good wishes and faces were contorted in obvious sadness. One man even seemed to be crying. Then they were gone, only the murmur of their melodious voices to remind the living room's inhabitants of their existence.

"Thank you, Shadow," Potter said, obviously much relieved.

The Prince just waved his words away. "I trust you sleep and eat enough?" He asked sternly and Potter chuckled, sending a look towards Snape that said nothing but _See? You're just like him!_

"Professor Snape is making sure that I do," He answered.

Shadow nodded. "You chose well," He said quietly, and it took Snape longer than a moment to realize that the Prince of vampires had just paid him a compliment.

"I know," Potter answered.

Silence. Then Shadow sighed, and a tired confusion settled on his face that made him almost look human for a moment.

"My people want me to turn you," He said. "In fact, one or two of them mentioned the possibility that they themselves would rescue your life if I decided to remain unreasonable.

Now it was Potter who was waving words away like bothersome flies.

"I know you too well not to believe you would respect my wishes," He answered softly. "You know that I could never become one of you."

Suddenly, he grinned. "And I also know too much about your leading style not to feel pity for those poor ones that try to sneak back here."

"Nevertheless," Shadow said. "Will you reactivate the vampire wards on your grounds once we are gone? There are too many of my followers that love you. One of them might slip through my fingers."

Potter was quiet for a long moment, his face hidden in shadows. Then, he nodded.

"I will miss you," He whispered, and Snape realized that he witnessed an ending, a goodbye between two men as close as family, no matter how many years lay between them.

"Whatever happens to you, Harry, I will carry your memory through the centuries to come," Shadow promised, his voice fierce in its determination. "No vampire will ever forget you."

Slowly, Potter stood from the sofa and walked towards Shadow. Their embrace was long, and it had the sort of finality that closed off paths to the future and opened new, bleaker ones.

At last, Shadow stepped away from Potter and nodded solemnly. He inclined his head towards Snape. Then he was gone.

0o0o0

A/N: The idea of Potter-Land, in which Snape is lost, is taken from the TV-series "Monk". There it is used under completely different circumstances, but stealing is stealing, after all.

A bit of a transitory chapter, but the next one will have the Ministry, Voldemort and more things Snape never knew. Review!


	24. The Chosen One

**A/N:** Back again after a long time of RL-stress and writer's block. I wish to thank you for both your patience and your many encouraging reviews! Although I simply do not have the time to write any faster at the moment, please believe me that it is mainly your comments that keep me going!

I hope that I will be able to get the next chapter, as well as the "Lioness"-Update, up in about a week. Please let me once more remind you that update schedules, answers to your questions and further titbits can be found at my livejournal (homepage-link on my profile page).

I have also posted a new one shot from the "Lioness"-universe that might interest some of you – go and check it out!

That said, on to the story:

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**The Chosen One**

When Snape walked into the kitchen the next morning, he was confronted with a plate full of pancakes, a smiling Potter nursing his morning tea, and a white envelope lying on what he had come to think of as his side of the table.

Potter had retired to his room soon after Shadow's departure, being uncharacteristically solemn and quiet. Snape understood him well. They both knew that Shadow would refrain from meeting Potter only for his safety – the worse Potter looked, the stronger would the other vampires demand his 'rescue'.

But still. Snape hadn't been forced to say goodbye like that often in his life – most people hadn't mattered enough for him to care, or had died too quickly and unexpectedly to receive his farewells. In a way he was glad about it.

Snape filled another cup of tea for himself, noting amusedly that Potter had at least learned not to hover around him and play the servant. But hours of caustic remarks had obviously taught him to do as little as possible. And pouring tea for his ex-Potions teacher certainly wasn't one of the must-does.

His amusement faded, however, when he turned to the table and the letter waiting for him.

"It's Dumbledore," He announced expressionlessly, once he had broken the seal and perused the content. "He wants to meet me again this afternoon. Alone, this time."

He was rather proud that that his voice showed nothing of the irritation and anger he felt at Dumbledore's commanding tone. What did the Headmaster expect? That he stow away Potter somewhere and simply leave him alone to satisfy the idle curiosity of an old man?

Who was he, anyway, to order Snape around like a general? The war was over and had been so for a long time.

Potter just shrugged and concentrated on his tea, a blissful expression on his face. It was still a surprise for Snape just how much joy Potter seemed to derive from the simple things around him. Like his preferred tea blend, something Snape seldom ever noticed.

"Perhaps he wasn't very satisfied with the way our last meeting went," He suggested, his lips slightly curled.

"Probably," Snape agreed, still frowning over the problem this presented. "But I can't simply leave you alone here. Your last fit proves that."

Instead of jumping at that solution, Potter just smiled, as if he knew exactly how badly Snape wanted to avoid that meeting.

"I could request Ayda to visit me this afternoon. You could initiate her into the great and solemn secret of slapping Harry Potter and be off without worrying."

Snape's irritation deepened when he could find no flaw with this plan, not even after close examination.

"There are a few books and potions I'd need anyway," He agreed, trying to sound as if he looked forward to meeting the Headmaster.

Harry's smile widened. "I will contact Ayda," He offered. "Shall I ask her to arrive around two o'clock? That would leave us time for my fifth year."

"Charming," Snape answered, wondering silently for a moment whether it was wise to leave Potter alone after a memory as harrowing and painful as this. But then he sneered his own sentimentality off, telling himself that Potter had, after all, survived many years without his professor to baby sit him. "I will write to Dumbledore then, and accept the… _invitation_."

They shared a short, conspiratorial grin, then parted to write their letters, agreeing to meet in the lab half an hour later.

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They stepped out of the mist and into chaos.

From his knowledge of that famous night at the Department of Mysteries, Snape knew that the events had nearly run their course. The Order had already arrived, and although more than one of them was down with injuries, it was clear enough that they would defeat the overwhelmed and surprised Death Eaters.

Glimpses of students, all of them wounded in one way or the other, came to Snape as he was searching the room for Potter, who was trading spells with Lucius Malfoy, then grabbed Longbottom and tried to haul him out of the room.

Snape saw the prophecy crash to the ground and vanish, unheard, then saw their faces lighten up in reaction to Dumbledore's arrival, Dumbledore, who had even then been a hero to Harry Potter, as Snape could clearly see in the teenager's face.

But Snape did not watch Dumbledore capture the Death Eaters with the ease of a seasoned hunter. His eyes were glued instead to the last pair of enemies duelling, precariously close to the stone arch that dominated the middle of the room.

He hissed with irritation when he saw Black taunting Lestrange, but then a red flash of magic hit the man's chest and his expression turned from an alive, triumphant smile to the horrified realization of his own mistake.

From his position to the side, Snape noticed Black's eyes flicker towards where Potter-the-boy stood. _It's a bit late for that now, Black_, He sneered inwardly, but all his thoughts died at the inhuman, desperate howl that burst forward from Potter's body.

"SIRIUS," Potter yelled. "SIRIUS!"

He ran towards the floor, panting in shock and horror, and Snape had to avoid his eyes from the pain in his face. He had always hated the mutt, and secretly, deep down, he had been immensely satisfied with his rather pathetic death, but now, in the presence of Potter's suffering, as he watched the boy being bodily kept from jumping after his Godfather by Lupin, he could feel no satisfaction, only horror.

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

_Denial is such a powerful thing,_ Snape thought while Potter-the-boy's face contorted into a terrible mixture of pain and hope. But then Black had been the only grown-up Potter had fully trusted, the only one that had even remotely counted as family to him.

It was a sad state of affairs when the only trust a boy like Potter could develop was in a more than slightly mad ex-convict that had never shown the slightest trace of responsibility.

But oh, how longing the boy had been, Snape thought as he watched Potter-the-boy struggle with Lupin and Potter-the-man calmly stand in front of the veil that had cost him his godfather.

How needy.

How empty his circle of trust must have been that the removal of such an unreliable presence as his godfather could have ripped such a hole into it, a hole that even now was filling the boy's eyes, that had cut a wound so deeply that he was even now bleeding to death, bleeding and suffering, invisible to those around him who were concerned with the battle that was winding to its end.

"SIRIUS – SIRIUS!"

"He can't come back, Harry," Said Lupin, his voice breaking as he struggled to contain Harry. "He can't come back, because he's d-"

"HE – IS – NOT – DEAD!" Potter roared. "SIRIUS!"

Whenever Snape had remembered Potter's fifth year, it had been in a red haze of rage and hurt, and the boy's face had been indistinguishable from that of his father. Gloating, triumphant James Potter, enjoying his power over those weaker and less golden than he was.

He had tormented Snape's years at Hogwarts, had made his home, the first home he had ever known, a place of danger and humiliation and had turned Snape into a laughing stock. And now his son had come back, that snotty child with the self righteous eyes and impertinent manner, had come back to haunt Snape, to revisit the old shame and spread the ugly truth among the school.

That had been the Potter he had seen and hated during fifth, sixth and seventh year, the taunting, gleeful spectre of his dark nights.

And only now, that he watched the memory of this boy for signs of the Fading, did the red haze finally die away.

There was no gloating in Potter's eyes, none of the cocky, holier-than-thou attitude he had hated with the father. Potter's eyes were swollen, blood shot and full of horror, circled by dark shadows that stemmed from too many sleepless nights.

Clotted blood was clinging to the side of his face where Lucius' curse had cut through his shields.

The boy looked so weary.

Even as he was fighting his way over to the veil his body screamed exhaustion. Even as his body tensed with shock and panic he seemed tired, too tired to even move.

And while Snape watched, standing quietly by the side of a boy he could no longer hate, he saw the old Potter die, saw a huge wave of guilt and realization crash against the barriers of his mind.

Saw him drown in pain, his disbelief a last shield from the endless breakers around him that weakened, failed, and gave way. And then there was only pain in his eyes.

Such pain, Snape knew from his own experience, would cause a man to do anything, to submit to any stupidity, if only it would lighten that leaden pressure on the heart and mind.

From the darkness, Snape saw a glow slowly built in his eyes, the glowing green of the killing curse that spread through Potter and fed on his pain.

Snape didn't need to see Potter's eyes fall on Bellatrix, did not need to see themharden in hate, to know what the boy would do.

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS! SHE KILLED HIM – I'LL KILL HER!"

And he was off, scrambling up the stone benches; people were shouting behind him but he didn't seem to care. Snape wasn't sure whether he was even able to hear them in his state.

Snape had already reached the door through which Potter had vanished, waiting for the other Potter to join him, when he realized that he was the only one who had moved.

Lupin, Tonks, Shacklebolt, all those who had come here tonight to save their Chosen One, who had battled the Death Eaters to rescue him, stood frozen in their tracks, seemingly unwilling to follow the one they had come to protect.

They simply let him tear off on his own.

"Why didn't these incompetent nitwits follow him?" Snape hissed, not trusting his own eyes. He had always questioned the Order's competence, but this went way beyond even his worst fears.

"Dumbledore told them not to," Potter answered from his side and Snape nearly jumped in surprise. He hadn't heard or seen the other man move. "At least he sent them Patronus messages a few minutes ago, before he slipped out of the room."

"He slipped out of the room?" Snape echoed stupidly, only just now realizing that Dumbledore, who had grandfatherly consoled generations of students, had made no move towards the boy who had just lost his godfather and nearly all of his friends in a battle.

_Why hadn't he tried to keep Potter here, in safety? After all, he _had _to know that there would be more Death Eaters out there!_

"Of course he knew," Potter once more answering his thoughts as if Snape had spoken aloud.

"But this was a turning point, Professor. The last person I really trusted had just been killed and I went crazy for a moment, I believe. Only think what would have happened if Tonks had gotten to me first, or Lupin, if they had said something that would have snapped me out of it, or if they had managed to make me trust them…"

Snape wished that he didn't understand, that neither he or Potter had lived through enough to see the sense in that statement, to understand that Dumbledore was using this moment of complete and utter terror to his own advantage, that he was using Potter's pain to control him.

"Black's death has isolated you," Snape whispered, not because Potter expected an explanation, but because the truth was awful enough to constrict his throat and hinder his breath. It wanted out. "You are now totally alone and unable to deal with your pain."

"And whoever offers me an explanation right now, whoever channels the feelings that overwhelm me, will have power to control me," Potter nodded, as if they were talking about the weather, not the destruction of his own life.

"He is very close now to getting what he always wanted – an isolated, frightened boy with power who wants nothing more but a focus point to direct his hate and pain."

„And what was that focus point?" Snape asked, although he already knew the answer. Shortly after this night, the Order had been informed fully about the prophecy, and less than two months later Potter had begun his training.

Once more the enormity of what he was witnessing dawned on Snape, and he wanted to follow the memory of Dumbledore and strangle the manipulating old man to death. And to think that he had once trusted that man!

"The trip down memory lane is not very pleasant, is it?" Potter suddenly inquired, his voice that of a tourist guide that had failed to please his customers.

"You could phrase it that way," Snape whispered as his legs automatically carried him towards the Ministry's entrance hall.

"After all, you are experiencing only the negative things," Potter continued in an apologetic tone. "Fights, pain and fear. But there were all these good things that you never even glimpse. This whole experience must be rather depressing."

"Depressing," Snape echoed hollowly, unable to make the transfer from the howling chaos of understanding in his own mind to that light, conversational tone.

"Yes," Potter agreed. "And to think that the beginning was so wonderful – magic, and Hogwarts, and my first friends ever. Only that, somehow, these things started to disappear along the way. Soon, it will all get very dark, and dreary, without a single ray of light. Or at least that's what I remember. You know how melodramatic one tends to see his past."

"You are telling me that it will soon _get very dark_, Potter?" Snape asked, not sure if he wanted to believe his ears. So far, Potter had had a knack for understatements, and he suspected this one of being the worst.

„Yes," Potter answered, his face suddenly cold and void of any feeling, an expression so close to Snape's normal one, and so terribly far away from everything he had seen on the other man's face over the last weeks that Snape shivered. „Soon, every single light will go out and leave me in darkness. It wasn't a pleasant time."

As if on cue, they rounded a corner and saw Potter jump towards Bellatrix from behind the tasteless golden fountain, his wand trained towards the witch, an expression of utter hate twisting his face.

"_Crucio_," He yelled, his eyes the colour of the killing curse, and Potter-the-man shook his head sorrowfully.

"No," He repeated quietly. "Not a pleasant time at all."

0o0o

**A/N: **I didn't mention that in my other pensieve scenes, but of course every piece of writing you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling and to her alone. I try to quote as little as I can, though.

Just so you know, all those capital letters normally aren't my style, but it's in the book and I thought I'd keep it.


	25. The Truth Shall Make Ye Free

**A/N: **I'm terribly, awfully busy at the moment, people, and this chapter only got done because it was nearly finished when real life hit me with a hammer. This means that I'm most thankful for your support and absolutely understand your wish for faster updates, but it also means that nothing will get done before the work I'm paid for is done. So please have patience with me! I appreciate every review and know how much you're waiting, but it can't be changed…

Oh, and by the way: You might want to read the last chapter once more before you start this one, because both are in a way just one large story arc that will continue in the next chapter.

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„_Yes," Potter answered, his face suddenly cold and void of any feeling, an expression so close to Snape's normal one, and so terribly far away from everything he had seen on the other man's face over the last weeks that Snape shivered. „Soon, every single light will go out and leave me in darkness. It wasn't a pleasant time."_

_As if on cue, they rounded a corner and saw Potter jump towards Bellatrix from behind the tasteless golden fountain, his wand trained towards the witch, an expression of utter hate twisting his face. _

"_Crucio," He yelled, his eyes the colour of the killing curse, and Potter-the-man shook his head sorrowfully. _

"_No," He repeated quietly. "Not a pleasant time at all."_

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**The Truth Shall Make Ye Free**

Confronted with the enraged saviour of the wizarding world who had just cast his very first Unforgivable, Snape came to a skittering, rather inelegant halt.

"Another thing Dumbledore didn't tell me," He whispered while he watched the Cruciatus' effect on Bellatrix, short lived as it was.

"It didn't work, back then," Potter explained, once more offering nothing but his infernal shrug. "I didn't yet have the power to use the curse."

Snape spontaneously decided not to ask about that 'yet'.

"Shouldn't be Voldemort somewhere around here?" He questioned instead, but missed Potter's answer as Bellatrix once more engaged the younger Potter in a duel that was way beyond student level.

Whenever he had watched Bellatrix duel over the years, he couldn't but admire her grace. Mad as she was, cruel as she was, there was still something inherently beautiful in the way she moved and fought, just like other women might dance.

Bellatrix never danced. She killed.

Potter-the-boy, on the other hand, was anything but graceful He was holding up by sheer willpower, it seemed, his movements clumsy and his spellwork unrefined. He had a far way to go yet to become the elegant, commanding figure of his older self that had settled down at the edge of the fountain now, completely ignoring the spells and curses flashing around his head in favour of staring into the water.

Wondering if this was a sign of approaching weakness or just another one of his enigmatic behavioural patterns, Snape made a few steps towards him and was rewarded with a sudden blaze of green as Potter lifted his head and looked at him.

"Concentrate on the memory, Professor," He advised mildly. "There is good reason the following minutes might have induced the Fading. I'm fine. Just counting the galleons. Quite amazing it is – put a fountain somewhere and immediately someone will throw a coin."

"Glad to see you're still mad, Potter," Snape answered expressionlessly and returned his attention to Potter-the-boy.

Despite the fact that every movement of the boy screamed his weariness to the world, the duel wasn't finished. If anything, it had turned even fiercer and more deadly.

But what fascinated and worried Snape weren't the curses which the green eyed boy and the mad witch traded. It was the way Potter was mocking Bellatrix, was taunting her very much the same way Black had been only minutes before.

"The prophecy smashed when I was trying to get Neville up the steps!" He shouted, earning an explosion of anger from Bellatrix. "What do you think Voldemort'll say about that, then?"

"LIAR!" She shrieked, but he could hear the terror behind the anger now.

And Harry Potter, Chosen One of the wizarding world, who had just seen his Godfather killed and had been close to the breaking point, laughed.

It was mad, hysterical laughter, barely distinguishable from the sounds Bellatrix made, a sound designed to create terror rather than mirth, but it served its purpose. It worried Bellatrix.

As he watched her yell explanations and excuses, Snape wondered why Dumbledore hadn't seen the danger he was seeing right now, why he hadn't realized that his Golden Boy was mere inches away from the darkness they had been fighting against.

He had hardened in those few minutes it had taken him to pursue Bellatrix, he had turned from an anguished victim to an avenger. And he was starting to use the weapons of the enemy.

"There is Voldemort," the older Potter whispered now, pointing towards a shadowy corner of the Atrium. Snape narrowed his eyes but could detect nothing in the darkness that seemed to move and sway on its own.

"And here is Dumbledore," Potter continued in very much the same voice, pointing to the other end of the hall. This time, Snape was sure that he noticed a shape, clad in bright golden and red robes, crouching near the wall and waiting.

_Like a spider in its web, or a lion in its den._

"Don't waste your breath!" Potter yelled now in answer to Bellatrix's pleads. His eyes were screwed up in what had to be excruciating pain, considering how close Voldemort was. "He can't hear you from here!"

"Can't I, Potter?" A high, cold voice from the shadows asked quietly.

Beatrix fell silent. The room seemed to hold its breath. And Potter opened his eyes to meet the red, glowing ones of his enemy.

There was no fear in them, not a hint of the emotions one would expect from a boy who yet again met his death. Only hate.

"I bet Tom never threw a coin into a fountain in his life," Potter mused from his place by the fountain, effectively destroying the drama of the moment. "And Dumbledore would only throw a Lemon Drop. Don't want to know what that would do to the water."

Snape turned his head and saw that Dumbledore had risen from his hiding place, wand in hand. The darkness obscured his face but Snape could imagine the way Dumbledore would look well enough – concentrated, fierce, and younger than his years should make possible.

He had looked that way before every single battle they had fought together, and his determined optimism had given strength and hope to Snape more times than he could count.

But this time, when he watched his leader and mentor launch himself into battle, Snape could feel only the ashes of his beliefs on his tongue. That, and a growing disbelief and rage.

What angered Snape wasn't the fact that Dumbledore seemed to ignore Potter apart from moving statues in front of him, not bothering to send the boy out of the room or throw a portkey to him, nor was it the fact that Dumbledore let go several good chances to place fatal hits.

Dumbledore was not even _trying_ to capture Voldemort, instead concentrating fully on defensive measures. Snape knew Dumbledore' fighting style, had known it for more than twenty five years now, and that knowledge told him that Dumbledore wasn't going in for a kill.

He was keeping the Dark Lord at bay, but he was using only part of his strength for the spells. And from his words, even Voldemort knew it.

_Show off_, Snape thought disgustedly. This act, this dramatic speech and David-against-Goliath performance was staged only for Potter, to show Dumbledore's control and superiority. Even in the face of their mortal enemy, the one they had tried to defeat for decades, Dumbledore was not fighting. He was concentrating on manipulating Potter, on fulfilling the _prophecy_, not doing the goddamned job.

Dumbledore wanted to appear strong for Potter, wanted to be a hero that had to be trusted and admired.

And from the way Potter's eyes were glued to the lonely figure of the Headmaster, it certainly seemed to work.

_How could you, Albus,_ Snape wondered as Voldemort vanished in a flash of light and Dumbledore warned Potter not to move. _Risking the boy's live and playing with his mind. Even a Slytherin would have been ashamed of what you did tonight, and we pride ourselves of having no conscience._

Suddenly, Potter-the-boy gave a scream of the kind Snape had only ever heard from the dying. With a few steps, Snape was by the boy's side, only to wish a moment later that he could turn his eyes away from his suffering, that he could forget what he had seen.

And he had thought the _Cruciatus_ painful!

"Voldemort possessed me."

Somehow, Potter-the-man was by his side again, crouching down to the left of his memory body, his head lowered, his jaw line tense as if he could feel the agony that rocked his younger self's body, as if the memory had the power to touch him somehow, to communicate its suffering in some silent, invisible way.

"It was the worst pain I ever felt," Potter whispered. "Worse than the basilisk poison. Worse than Voldemort's torture. Worse even than the knowledge that everyone I had ever loved was dead."

He shook his head, a bemused sadness softening the lines in his face. "Funny, really," He said. "If you consider the life I've led, the things I did, and still I encountered the greatest pain when I had stopped being myself. I wanted to die."

He stopped for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. "Any sign of the Fading?" He then asked, abruptly, and Snape shook his head to indicate that he had checked and found nothing.

He opened his mouth to ask what it had been like, what he had seen when his mind and that of the Dark Lord had merged, but his teeth clicked together painfully as something in the boy's face suddenly changed.

"_Kill me now, Dumbledore…"_

Potter's lips were forming the words, his voice was uttering them. But it was not Potter who spoke, and the way his face and body moved, like a puppet controlled by clumsily drawn strings, was ghastly.

Still more awful was the expression Snape could read in Potter's eyes, those dark green pools of fire that still seemed to belong to the boy, no matter what Voldemort had done to gain power over his body.

_Do it_, They seemed to beg. _Kill me and be done with it. Do it!_

"_If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy…"_

Snape shuddered and, not caring anymore that Potter was watching, that he was witnessing his weakness, turned his eyes away.

To see these two master manipulators fight over the body and mind of a mere boy was more than even he, the spy and cold hearted bastard, could bear. He looked up into Dumbledore's eyes and saw nothing but concentration, nothing but cold, hard intelligence.

The Headmaster hadn't cared. Not enough to wish Potter's suffering to end. He had spent these eternal seconds of absolute pain calculating the reasons for Voldemort's behaviour and the best way to use it to his own advantage.

He would have stood here, Snape realized, and watched Potter succumb to madness without helping. And afterwards, he would have been sincerely sorry, mourning a boy he had cared about, even loved.

But now, he wasn't caring. He was planning. And when Snape suddenly saw Dumbledore the grandfather, the white bearded man with the twinkling eyes return, he knew that it was all an act, that Voldemort had finally left Potter's body and the 'great man Dumbledore' had returned just in time to ensure Harry's thankfulness.

As Snape watched Dumbledore kneeling besides Potter, his smile gracious and his hands soft, he felt sick.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, real worry coating his voice.

"Yes," Said Potter, shaking so violently he could not hold his head up properly. "Yeahh, I'm – where's Voldemort, where – who are all these – what's…"

But no question would be answered here, in the presence of others. As Dumbledore assumed control over the situation and created a portkey which he handed to Potter, Snape turned around to the Potter of his time and saw him leaning against a pillar, eyes narrowed to slits and fingers folded behind his head, following every move of his former Headmaster as if they communicated some hidden meaning to him.

"Well," Snape began, not quite sure what tone to choose after the events they had witnessed. "I'm glad that's over…"

"I'm afraid it isn't yet, Professor", Potter interrupted him softly. "We still have the little matter of the prophecy before us."

"The prophecy?" Snape asked, but then understanding dawned in him. "Do you mean… He dragged you into his office and told you about the prophecy after this? After you had just been possessed by Voldemort?"

Potter just shrugged, not voicing the obvious fact that Dumbledore probably had wanted to drive the point home before Potter escaped into the safety of the infirmary.

"No time like the present," He said, but his face mirrored for a moment the exhaustion his younger self must be feeling. "The portkey should take me there any second now."

And as if his words had been the signal, their surroundings were swallowed by mist and darkness, only to be replaced after a second by the familiar, relaxing atmosphere of the Headmaster's office.

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**A/N**: I know – the combination of a short chapter and a cliffhanger is really rather unfair. But after all, you know what is going to happen – at least for one more chapter. After that, I'm afraid that we will be left alone in Potter land with no canon knowledge to guide us – fear and tremble, dear readers!

All quotes (mostly direct speech) in this chapter come from J.K. Rowling's _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_, of course.

Review?? Pretty please?


	26. The Human Condition

A/N: Life continues to be busy, and so updating continues to be slow. Don't ask me to update faster, because it will accomplish nothing but frustrate my muse, in which case she hides in the attic and refuses to come out again (but you may tell me how you liked this chapter, my muse is a vain thing). 

For this chapter, by the way, the same warning as for the last: It directly continues the story of the last two chapters. Go and read them again if you want the ‚real thing'.

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"_The prophecy?" Snape asked, but then understanding dawned in him. "Do you mean… He dragged you into his office and told you about the prophecy after this? After you had just been possessed by Voldemort?"_

_Potter just shrugged, not voicing the obvious fact that Dumbledore probably had wanted to drive the point home before Potter escaped into the safety of the infirmary. _

"_No time like the present," He said, but his face mirrored for a moment the exhaustion his younger self must be feeling. "The portkey should take me there any second now."_

_And as if his words had been the signal, their surroundings were swallowed by mist and darkness, only to be replaced after a second by the familiar, relaxing atmosphere of the Headmaster's office. _

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**The Human Condition**

"Sit down immediately, Potter," Snape ordered sharply. "You do not want another seizure just because you overexerted yourself."

Potter grinned, but it was a weak grin, full of shadows. "Yes, sir," He agreed docilely and chose an out of the way armchair. "Perhaps you should sit down, too. It will be some time before Dumbledore arrives."

"He let you wait?"

"Events needed time to sink in. I don't think I would have been coherent if we had started immediately. Not to mention that retarding elements always keep up the tension."

Snape had to silently agree as his eyes once more fell on the younger Potter, who was still standing in the middle of the office, his back ramrod straight and his shoulders thrown backward forcefully in a way that had to hurt.

Realizing that there was nothing he could do or prepare at the moment, Snape selected a straight-backed chair and sank onto it with the tiniest of sighs, suddenly feeling exhausted to the bones.

It was as if only now he remembered to breathe, as if the mad chaos of events he had witnessed over the past hour had taken away his ability to reflect, mentally organise his surroundings, or even think.

Only now, sitting in a chair that had become familiar to him during his years as a teacher, sitting in this room he had always associated with safety, did he notice how tired he was.

How tired, and how utterly shell shocked.

_I've been a spy for longer than I care to remember_, he thought. _I survived battles, torture and Death Eater parties. And still I'm shocked by that little Ministry incident_.

But it weren't just the things he had seen that had shocked him; he knew that although he'd preferred to ignore it. It was as if the knowledge of Potter's past, the closeness they had – albeit involuntarily on his part – shared over the last weeks had somehow opened windows and doors he had never known existed.

He understood Potter now, or at least the younger Potter that wasn't as devilishly sphinxish as the mature one. He knew his fears, his pain, and, to a certain degree, could share them.

From his own perspective, the death of Black had been a slight, perhaps lightly amusing, inconvenience. From Potter's perspective – and he couldn't ignore a point of view as powerful as that once he had taken it – it was a devastating loss that rocked through Snape's body even now.

But he also knew Potter's behavioural patterns at that age, and standing frozen like a silent statue wasn't his normal reaction to pain. Losing his temper he would understand, denial, or shouting.

But not silent resignation. Potter didn't do resignation. He didn't do defeat. He kept on going even if there was nowhere to go.

Potter had always reminded Snape of one of these little metal toys muggles loved so much, a toy that you could wind up and it would move forward. Only that now the mechanism seemed broken.

"Why does he do this to me?" Potter suddenly shouted, waking the portraits from their doze and making Snape nod with silent relief. This was more like it. "Why won't he talk to me?"

"Ah," Potter-the-man remarked calmly without bothering to open his eyes. "Melodramatic ranting ahead, Professor. I'm very sorry."

"What is this 'rant' about, Potter?" Snape asked, not bothering to hide how tired he felt.

"About my fifth year in general, not to mention the unfairness of life as a whole I'd think," Potter answered lazily, his face relaxing into the serene expression Snape had come to know so well.

"I don't know if you noticed it back then, but Dumbledore kept avoiding me during the whole year, not even talking to me at that Hearing in the Ministry," Potter continued. "I'm still not entirely sure whether he believed that I would channel Voldemort, or whether he preferred to let me simmer a bit."

"He was very busy that year," Snape remarked, but it was more a perfunctory comment. He had wondered the same thing himself, more than once.

"He tells me that he's there for me, but he never is! He tells me that I must trust him, and yet he's keeping things from me! Why must everyone I love die? Why can't he stop it?" The memory-Potter continued, his voice bitter and hard, but laced with just a hint of the pain he must be feeling.

Snape suddenly remembered Potter's christmas in the cupboard that he had witnessed what seemed like an eternity ago. Potter had talked to himself back then, too, had asked questions in the same desperate, half angry half pained voice, questions that no one would ever answer.

Even Snape, master in the art of berating cauldrons, usually refrained from asking questions into the thin air. But then he had never believed in the therapeutic value of talking the way Gryffindors usually did.

"But he did try, didn't he?" Potter suddenly asked, in a tone of voice so completely different that Snape's head shot around to him. "They all did. Telling me to practice Occlumency. Telling me not to want the visions. Telling me not to rush off."

Had there been pain and despair in his face before, it was now replaced by panic, utter, bone-shaking fear.

"I killed him!" He whispered, his body shaking with the horror of this realization. "Hermione was right. Snape was right! I lost my temper and I got Sirius killed!

"I killed him! It's all my fault!"

As if he wanted to flee from this sudden realization, Potter rushed to the door and turned the knob, only to find it locked.

Just as he would so many years later, or, in Snape's own timeline, a few days ago, and the understanding of what situation Dumbledore had been mirroring in his office made Snape's anger rise again.

How could Dumbledore lock Potter in when it had to remind him of this day, of this night?

Still fighting futilely with the door knob, Potter gave a sudden grunt, a primitive sound of pain and anger, and for a moment, Snape expected him to raise his palm against the door and force it open with his will.

But whether his will was not strong enough tonight or his magic exhausted, Potter didn't even try. His arms fell down to his side as if he had no strength left to keep them raised, and he stumbled to a chair, falling onto it and hiding his face in his hand.

A soft trembling ran through the line of his shoulders, then he sat completely still.

Silence reigned, only interrupted by two of the irritating portraits Albus insisted of keeping around. Probably because they informed him about everything that went on in the castle.

Then, the empty fireplace burst into green flames and Dumbledore stepped from the fire, to the enthusiastic applause of said irritating portraits.

It was the entrance of a hero, and it couldn't have been better executed had there been a script.

"Well Harry. You will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night's events".

_Oh Albus,_ Snape thought in tired disbelief. _You always were the best manipulator of consciences_._ What an elegant way to remind him of his mistakes. What an elegant way of making him feel guilty._

"I know how you're feeling, Harry," Dumbledore now said very quietly, in a smooth transition from cheerful to compassionate. Snape couldn't help but admire the man's talent, misused as it was.

"No, you don't," Potter answered, sudden anger in his voice, and Snape found to his own surprise that he was actually hoping Potter would withstand, would cut through all this sentimental nonsense and find the cold, hard truth underneath.

"Don't confuse anger with understanding, Professor," Potter-the-man suddenly said, his eyes now open and very awake. "I realized nothing. I only hurt so much that I somehow had to get rid of the feeling."

"Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man!" Dumbledore continued, and the sickly sweet, understanding tone in his voice disgusted Snape. "This pain is part of being human-"

"THEN – I DON'T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!" Potter roared, seizing one of Dumbledore's beloved magical instruments and flinging it against the wall with a power Snape hadn't known he possessed.

Involuntarily, Snape's eyes wandered over to Potter-the-man.

_I'm only checking on his medical state_, He told himself, refusing to admit that he wanted to see the confidence of the grown man, needed a living proof that the boy had crossed this vale and survived.

Somehow.

"I DON'T CARE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!"

It was, perhaps, the truest thing he had ever heard Harry Potter say, Snape reflected while he watched the boy methodically destroy Dumbledore's office.

There were no lies left in the blazing fire of his desperation, no _I'm fine_s or other such false assurances, no Gryffindor bravery.

Only the bleak, ugly truth of his suffering and his need for it to end, no matter how.

_This is more than just a teenage rant_, Snape thought, his eyes on Dumbledore's face that was merciless in its calm, accepting pity. Potter was so far gone by now that it seemed a miracle he was still moving, was still speaking.

To reach the end of a reservoir of strength that was as large as Potter's, to see the last drops of what had carried him through years of abuse and terror trickle through the Headmaster's hands was beyond painful.

And Dumbledore didn't even care. He just sat there, quietly, a soft, mild twinkling in his eyes, waiting until even this last rebellion against fate, this last expression of will would fade. Until Potter would have nothing left with what to fight.

And then to drive the point home. The terrible, terrible point of Potter's life.

Once more it seemed that mere aggression wasn't enough for Potter, that he couldn't bear stay in the presence of his guilt. Once more he rushed towards the office door and tried the door knob.

"Let me out!" Potter demanded when the door, unsurprisingly, didn't open.

"No."

Dumbledore's voice was quiet and his eyes soft, but there was the same determination in his eyes that Snape would see so many years later, the determination to do the best for Potter no matter if he crushed the boy in the process.

"Not until I have had my say,"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO SAY! I don't want to hear _anything _you've got to say.

"You will," Said Dumbledore steadily, and something in his voice made Snape sit more upright and turn towards him with a feeling of dreaded expectation. "Because you are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. If you are to attack me, as I know you are close to doing, I would like to have thoroughly earned it."

"And here we go," Potter-the-man said softly, rising from his chair and walking over to the window, as if he wanted to turn his back on what was going on.

Snape thought about reprimanding him, after all he had told Potter to sit down and relax. But then he realized how stupid the thought was that Potter could ever relax in the presence of so much of his old pain and sorrow.

"It is _my _fault that Sirius died-" Dumbledore now began, and as if he had planned every single part of it, the sun chose this moment to tint the office with a soft, red glow.

Silently, Snape watched and listened as Dumbledore unfolded his great speech. It was masterfully done, he had to admit, but to a listener as experienced as he was with propaganda, the flaws were rather obvious.

It was all too coherent, too smooth, creating a causality of motif and reason that had never existed in its clear obviousness. Even Dumbledore, wise, omniscient Dumbledore, had never seen the world in the way he described it now, spread before him in a grand tableau of action and reaction, a tapestry of lives on which Potter's angry or pained comments were nothing more than a thin layer of dust and tears.

Even with the knowledge of just how much Dumbledore hadn't told him in his mind, Snape was all too aware that many unplanned things had happened over the years, many things no one could have taken into account, many things even Dumbledore didn't know.

But, of course, that wasn't the world the Headmaster and general of the Order wanted to show Potter.

What he wanted to show the boy, in this moment of utter loss and disorientation, was control. Logic. What he wanted to give to him was the realization that all this made sense, that his fate, terrible as it may be, had a leading point, and that all had happened for a reason.

That nothing would have been in vain, not even Sirius' death, as long as Potter accepted his destiny.

And followed Dumbledore's orders, of course.

"Do you see, Harry? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now?" Dumbledore said softly, his eyes resting with something akin to tenderness on the boy sitting in front of him with glazed eyes. "I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

"I don't-"

"I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act."

Despite his will, Snape took a sharp breath and stared at Dumbledore in disbelief. In all his years as a Slytherin and spy, he had never twisted the truth in such an ugly, deceptive way.

Cared too much about Potter? About his peace of mind? About his life? Where had that line of thought been during all those near death experiences Dumbledore had caused Potter to go through? Behind the door?

Only someone with even less brain than a Gryffindor could have considered Potter's life the result of a careful protection. Only a total dimwit could interpret Dumbledore's influence in the boy's life as love.

And still… still… from the way Potter-the-boy's face lit up and contracted painfully at these words, he believed all of it.

Or at least he wanted to. For what else was there to believe in, now that he had lost all orientation, all his hold in this world, what else was there to believe in but that it had – at least – been done for his own best, and that it would all turn out good in the end, now that he had understood.

_And now to the last act_, Snape thought bitterly, not able to admire the building of half truths and careful manipulations Dumbledore had erected for its beauty. _You have beaten him down to the ground, you have explained his life to him, you have taken away the right to interpret the horrors he went through. And now you're going to hand him the meaning of all this, the hidden well from whence all this sprang. Brilliant, Headmaster_.

Dumbledore took his time to present the prophecy, adding a nice touch to its interpretation with the sad little story of Neville, the Boy Who Didn't Quite Make It. Just an underhanded way to tell Potter that not he alone had suffered, that, special as he was, he was not unique.

It was quite dramatic how he told the story, but Snape could tell from the pale, slightly dazed way Potter-the-boy looked that the thing was wasted on him.

Obviously, Potter had not yet learned to appreciate the irony of fate. Snape was not surprised.

"So," Said Potter finally, dredging up the words from a deep well of despair inside him. "So does that mean that… that one of us has got to kill the other one… in the end?"

"Yes," Said Dumbledore.

Only this word.

But it was enough to shape the future of the world.

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**A/N:** Quotes are – as usual – from J.K. Rowling's work, in this case the infamous office scene at the end of book Five. I took my liberty with it, however, by adding Harry's short monologue – this is invented by me and doesn't appear in the book, although I do believe it is very true to what Harry might have felt at that moment.

Keep tuned for the next chapter! And many thanks for your comments and reviews!


	27. Tinkerbell and Lemon Drop Are Dead

**Tinkerbell and Lemon Drop Are Dead**

Snape desperately wanted to sleep.

Normally, he was his best at situations of crisis, his mind and body alert and sharpened to an unbreakable edge, able to work for hours and hours on end.

Normally, he was able to detach his mind from his surroundings no matter what was going on, to detach his mind and analyse, interpret, organise, build his own little world from the ruins of other men's hopes.

But the long string of memories that he had seen, the pain and horror and _wrongness_ of it all, had left him numb and aching at the same time, raw and vulnerable in a way that he hadn't known before.

And then the realization hit him that he would have to meet Dumbledore, in less than an hour if his sense of time hadn't gone awry.

He would have to meet him in the office that he had seen just now, and he would have to _pretend_.

He sat down at the kitchen table, hard, and it was only the awareness of Potter moving somewhere behind him that kept him from burying his head in his hands and going to sleep.

_It's shock_, The analytical, medical voice in his head whispered. But why was he shocked? These things hadn't concerned him. He had seen worse manipulations over the years, more complete destructions of men – or had he?

"You shouldn't take it so hard, Professor," Potter said quietly, sitting down besides him and offering him a cup of tea of whose brewing process Snape had no recollection. "These things happened a long time ago, and you had no way of knowing."

"That doesn't make it any better," Snape answered in a hollow voice and took a sip of his tea. To his horror, he found that Potter had laced it with a light calming potion. Was he looking that rattled?

"I thought you'd need it," Potter explained apologetically with a gesture towards the cup.

It was strange, Snape thought, that both leaders of the light, Dumbledore and Potter, had developed this eerie ability to know what one was thinking, yet that they used it in such a totally different way.

Dumbledore would spring your own thoughts on you, to show you how clever he was, or that you couldn't hide anything from him, or merely to shake your control. But Potter… he used that strange omniscient trait only to make it easier, to spare his opposite the necessity to say or do something he didn't really want to.

"I probably do," Snape admitted, unable to muster the strength for his usual glare. He was shocked at how brittle his voice sounded. "Considering that I have to meet the Headmaster soon and that strangling my employer wouldn't look very good on my CV."

He felt a light touch on his shoulder and looked up to see that it was Potter, leaning forward intently and looking, all of a sudden, very serious.

"This isn't your fight, Professor," He said, determined and very clearly. "Don't be too hard on Dumbledore. Don't judge him. It is all in the past, and, after all, I have forgiven him."

_Perhaps I'm not as forgiving as you are, Potter_, something snarled in the back of Snape's mind, but it was a very small thought, and Snape was too much taken up with looking at Potter in disbelief to really notice it.

"I don't understand you," He said finally, too tired to manage his usual angry tirade about bloody saints. "Why do you do that? You have every right to be angry. You have every right to be unforgiving. And still you are civil to everyone and constantly excuse their failures!"

"It is true," Potter agreed. "I _would_ have that right. I could spend my life as a bitter, hateful man, constantly moaning about the things that have been done to me, running around like a martyr clamouring about my terrible, terrible life. I could develop mental disorders, deliver dramatic speeches and break down every now and then."

He paused thoughtfully, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

"But the question is not whether I have the right. The question is whether that would be the kind of life I'd like to have. And the answer is most empathically no."

"If this is some kind of centaur thing…" Snape warned him, but Potter shook his head, smiling again, and poured more tea.

"Just consider, Professor," He said. "What would have happened if I had kept all my anger and hate bottled up for the past eight years? None of you would have known. You didn't even know that I was alive. And even _if _you had known, would you have cared? Would it have changed anything? Not for you."

He paused, his lips pursed in a way that told Snape how serious he was taking this talk, how important it was for him to get it right, to articulate exactly what he meant.

"But it would have changed a great deal for me, Professor. I remember how it was during that first year after Voldemort's defeat. I remember the nightmares, and what Shadow calls my 'harebrained suicide attempts'."

He smiled again with something like twisted, sad nostalgia. "It wasn't a good time. The hate and the pain poisoned everything. I _had_ to let go of it in order to live on. It seemed a huge step back then, but now all that seems so unimportant, so _childish_. And see what I got in return!"

His smile widened, to encompass his home, his absent friends, and, Snape found to his wonderment, Snape himself.

"Isn't this worth letting go of that hate and that anger?"

Snape couldn't help but feel that this discussion had become far more than just an explanation of Potter's reasoning, that it was, on a deep, complex level, perhaps the most important discussion they had ever had.

It was as if, in contrast to the painfully manipulative explanation of Potter's life he had witnessed mere minutes before, Potter had decided to lay himself open to Snape, to give him the key to all the changes that had made him the person he was today.

Only that Snape couldn't get it. Perhaps he was too tired, perhaps he was still too angry with the world in general and Dumbledore especially, but he felt that while he intellectually understood the things Potter was telling him, while he heard his words, he couldn't _understand_ them.

How could one let go of the past? How could one forgive? Weren't past injuries and injustices like a loose tooth that hurt with every touch and that one still couldn't keep away from?

Despite Potter's openness, he had never felt so distant from him, so cut off from the mystery that was the Boy Who Lived. After all, he had lived in the past and cultivated his own grudges longer than Potter was alive. And hadn't it always been the way he wanted to live? Hadn't it been his decision to remember, and to count every slight, and to never forgive?

He refused to wonder for even a moment, even a split second, that maybe his decision had been the wrong one, that he, like Potter, had been a victim to Dumbledore's manipulations, only that he had never freed himself, had never torn through the net of tenderness and lies that the Headmaster had woven around him, had never seen clearly…

Until now.

But he couldn't think that. For wouldn't it mean that his whole life had been nothing but a huge, worthless lie?

"Ayda," Potter suddenly said in a clear, rather loud voice, and Snape's head snapped up from its dangerously low position over the mug of tea. He felt the moistness of condensation on his own skin and rubbed it away with irritation. "It's good of you to come!"

"It is not _good_ of me to come," A well known voice declared decisively. "It was perfectly sensible. After all, you promised lunch."

"Potter," Snape barked, focusing all of his irritation to the situation at hand. "I told you to stop buzzing around in the kitchen. You are not to overexert yourself, and just because that thieving old slave driver came to baby sit you doesn't mean that you…"

"My, my," Ayda clucked disapprovingly. "What a temper we are in! Had a bad day of memories?"

"Fifth year," Potter informed her shortly. "Department, possession, office talk. And the Professor will have to meet Dumbledore soon."

And again, Snape felt a soft touch on his shoulder. He looked up, expecting it to be Potter once more, but found to his surprise that Ayda was standing at his side, pressing his shoulder for a moment before she led go, an unreadable expression in her face.

"Harry knows many lunches that can be made with a minimum of work," She then said, and it sounded like a peace offering to him.

He nodded stiffly. Now that the vexing druid woman was here, the kitchen seemed less homely to him, less… safe, and he didn't think that he would be up to a little banter right now.

Better to leave early and take his time with the walk to the castle. It would take some preparation to meet the Headmaster in the right state of mind.

"These are the potions Potter needs to take in the case of another seizure," He told Ayda, withdrawing vial after vial from his robes and organising them in a neat line in front of him. "If the symptoms start, slap him hard. If it doesn't get better, put him into a bathtub full of ice water – that worked the last time. If that doesn't help, you are free to invent new and creative ways of hurting Potter without maiming him for the rest of his life. Have fun."

Potter grinned at him, obviously amused by this short speech, and opened his mouth to respond, but something in Snape's face, blank and forbidding as it was, must have told him not to, and so he simply shrugged in that irritating way of his and stood to say goodbye.

"Remember that it isn't your fight, Professor," He said softly. "I'm quite grown up, you know?"

"Unfortunately that is true," Snape drawled back, feeling the layers and layers of his spy personality, that arrogant, untouchable bastard he had perfected over the years, come up and surround him with their comforting safety. "For otherwise I could simply hand out detentions to you and all your friends."

He saw Potter's eyes sadden suddenly, as if he knew perfectly well what Snape was doing and felt, for some reason, sorrow about it.

"Take care," He said, as if he wasn't the patient, but Snape. "And check everything you take back with you for tracking spells."

"I'm not stupid, Potter," Snape said acidly. "_I _taught you how to detect these spells, remember?"

And with a small pop he was gone from the kitchen, and looked up to the towering façade of Hogwarts.

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The trip up to Hogwarts was spent with thinking – not the kind of thoughts Snape found himself pondering these days, like how he was going to keep Potter alive for the next weeks, or why the Headmaster had lied to him all these years, or whether he hadn't misjudged a huge part of his past completely.

Rather he was withdrawing into that carefully constructed castle of misleading tracks, crafted thoughts and unreadable intentions that he had built himself during his years as a spy.

Only that he would use it against Dumbledore this time, not against Voldemort. The thought confused him less than it would have a day ago.

Out of sheer spite, he decided to visit his chambers and lab first. After all one seldom had the chance to make the most powerful wizard of an age wait. But as careful and meticulous he was about choosing ingredients and textbooks, the tasks he had set himself didn't occupy him for long.

It was time to enter the lion's den, then.

He ascended the staircase and opened the office door to be greeted by the smell of tea and scones. Really, now. As if he would taste anything that Dumbledore handed him today. He had thought the Headmaster a good deal more subtle.

"Severus," Dumbledore greeted him genially. "I am glad you found the time to come! Harry is safe, I trust?"

_A bit late to think of that, isn't it?_ Snape thought, but outwardly he just nodded and settled down in his usual chair, refusing to give the Headmaster the information he had implicitly asked for.

"I hope you didn't tie him down and force fed him a sleeping potion?" Dumbledore asked again, and Snape very nearly shook his head in annoyance.

Did the man have no self control at all? Could he have been any more obvious?

But then it hadn't taken many hints for Snape to spill everything he knew in the past years. Perhaps the Headmaster had become complacent, too used to getting everything he wanted handed on a silver platter.

Snape would make sure that this would change.

"Certainly not, Headmaster," He answered expressionlessly. "You told me to treat the brat well."

"Severus," Dumbledore said admonishingly. "I'm sure there's no need for that kind of language. Surely Harry hasn't been too aggravating?"

"It's in his genes. I don't suppose he can help it," Snape answered simply and fell silent again.

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, in the gentle disapproval that usually accomplished Snape's tirades against Potter.

Who had been right, Snape realized. There were a thousand things Dumbledore might have said in justification of Potter, but he didn't bother. He just allowed the prejudices to continue simmering.

Only that he didn't know this time that his game was up. That the prejudices had been tested against the truth and had shattered in the process.

"How then is the treatment progressing, Severus?" A direct, open question this time, not even a veil of concern drawn over it. Just simple curiosity.

"Slowly."

The Headmaster's impatience was very visible now, and Snape wondered whether he should simply leave it at that, but then decided that a confrontation was unwise.

"We have worked through about a third of his memories by now, but the more his health declines, the slower we will have to work."

"A third!" Dumbledore exclaimed, honest surprise in his face. "But surely he can't have that many memories that fit the parameters you set?"

Snape suppressed the effort to audibly grind his teeth. "Obviously he has," He answered curtly.

"Have you reached the abduction by Voldemort yet? I believe that a lot of his bad memories must centre around his time of imprisonment," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward with real and undisguised interest now.

"No," Snape answered, not quite able to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Sorry to disappoint you, Headmaster. I have been witnessing nothing of that period yet."

Something flashed in Dumbledore's eyes at these words, and the open and curious expression was replaced by guarded suspicion.

All of a sudden, the Headmaster looked wary, no longer like the eccentric old man he liked to cultivate in times of peace, but like the general of long gone years, suddenly confronted with a dangerous situation he couldn't quite evaluate.

Snape watched the tensing of this old, frail body, the way his hands curled around the the edge of his chair in nervous anticipation, and knew that Potter had never lied to him. There _was_ a secret about the Headmaster, buried in Potter's past, and Dumbledore was desperate that no one find out about it.

"What did he tell you, Severus? What is it that you witnessed?

Snape met the blue, twinkling eyes of the Headmaster, and for the first time in many years, he couldn't see the man who had rescued him from the Death Eaters, couldn't see the wise and just commander that had led them through the war.

He found himself in a whirl of Potter's memories, of a Headmaster with bright twinkling eyes, who told him that all his sufferings had been caused by love, who demanded absolution from those he manipulated.

And a voice rose to his mind, a small, desperate voice that didn´t seem to belong to a fifteen-year-old. _He tells me that he's there for me, but he never is! He tells me that I must trust him, and yet he's keeping things from me! Why must everyone I love die? Why can't he stop it?_

"Albus," He said, forcing his voice and mind under control. "Do you really think that your actions and words of the past 25 years have earned you any right towards Potter at all?"

He had expected denial, a charming smile and a soft twinkle perhaps, a conspiratorial comment about students in general perhaps, or even anger at this open questioning of his behaviour.

Not the sad but very honest expression that settled on Dumbledore's face at his words.

"Whatever I did concerning Harry," The Headmaster announced solemnly. "I did for his own best. I did it because I loved the boy, because I love him to this day. And the fact that he has forgiven me should show you that he himself has realized it, even if it took him eight long years to do so."

About to snarl a caustic remark, Snape met Dumbledore's eyes head on – and stopped.

"You really believe that, don't you?" He finally whispered, amazement open and undisguised in his voice. "You really think that you did the best for Potter."

"Of course," Dumbledore answered as if there had never been a question about it, and to him it probably hadn't.

Snape wanted to yell at him, wanted to ask him whether abuse was the best for a child, whether underhanded schemes and power struggles were the way to raise a troubled student.

But he realized that there was no sense in it.

One look into Dumbledore's eyes had told him that the Headmaster would never see reason, could never be persuaded to view the situation from another perspective.

Gryffindors in their righteous confidence truly were a terrifying thing to behold.

"Then," He said after a long moment of searching silence. "I don't believe that there is anything else I have to say to you, Headmaster."

He rose from his chair, feeling suddenly like an old man, and turned to go.

"Severus," Dumbledore called after him but he walked on anyway, his hand stretched out for the door knob, and for one single, awful second he wasn't sure whether it would open, whether Dumbledore wouldn't lock him into his office until he would see reason, like he had locked Potter in.

"Severus, that is not the way I want you to go. Let us talk about it…"

But the door wasn't locked, and Snape ripped it open, stepped through and passed the stone gargoyle before he allowed himself to breathe out in sudden relief.

Not his wisest move, perhaps. Not a very Slytherin thing to do. His behaviour had told Dumbledore far more than he had intended, and the Headmaster was probably even now wondering how he could get the situation back under his control.

No. Not very Slytherin. But for the first time since this mad trip down memory lane had started, Snape felt something like contentedness, like belonging.

He had made his decision. His spying days were over, finally and irreversibly. He would not be a puppet any longer.

0o0o0o0

A/N: The title of this chapter is an allusion to the play "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead" by Tom Stoppard, which in turn alludes to Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.


	28. Coming for to Carry You Home

**A/N:** The next chapter will take some time, unfortunately. Check out my lifejournal for progress – I solemnly swear I will post more often there…

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**Coming for to Carry You Home**

"How did it go?" Potter asked once Snape had shrugged off his cloak and helped himself to a piece of bread and cheese.

"The Headmaster demanded intimate knowledge about your past," He answered lightly. "And I refused to give it. The Headmaster wasn't pleased and we parted on a rather cold note. I don't expect invitations to dinner parties in the near future."

"You didn't have to do that, you know?" Potter said quietly.

"I know," Snape answered, for once not bothering with a complicated, refined answer. "But I wanted to. And now stop being sentimental all over me, Potter, or I will have to take another shower. Where's your terror sitter?"

"In the living room," Potter answered, not even reacting to the name Snape had coined for Ayda. "She's decided that she had better look over my possessions and tell me what she wants in case I don't make it. Nobody can say Ayda doesn't believe in planning."

Snape sneered. "That woman is shameless," He said. "No wonder she made it to the top of their hierarchy with that attitude."

Potter grinned. "I believe that happened rather because she's so very good with the knife."

Snape shuddered in an exaggerated manner, wondering at the same time where this sudden sprout of good mood came from.

"Don't remind me!" He said and walked over into the living room, where he found Ayda closely watching a set of leather bound Collected Works of Dickens as if the books were a pair of rabbits she intended to catch.

"I sincerely hope you won't take dinner with us," He greeted her. "You would disturb our work greatly."

She bared her teeth in what remotely resembled a smile. "Nice that you invite me," She answered with a purr. "But I am far too important to sit around with a bunch of weird bachelor wizards. Watch your back, Master Potions master!"

"And you better watch your tea, somebody could lace it with poison," Snape called after her and felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Irritating that she was, the woman did possess a certain charm. Like Moody, Molly Weasley and Dumbledore thrown into a pot and mixed together.

He tried to visualize that thought for a moment, then shuddered again and returned his attention to the bag of potions supplies and the books he had brought with him. Better to start on that refined Pepper Up right now, and to let Potter rest for another hour.

His mind was already on the brewing process when he walked through the kitchen, where Potter was busying himself with whatever muggles did to their sinks.

But the view from the kitchen window banished any thought of potions from his head in a flash of shock.

"Potter," He barked and felt the man's presence by his side in less than a heart beat. It still surprised him how fast he could move.

"Tonks?" Potter whispered, for once real surprise in his voice. "But how did she… You _did_ check all your belongings for tracking spells, didn't you?"

"Of course," Snape sneered. "I am not stupid Potter. I checked everything twice, except for the magical ingredients, of course. Even Dumbledore wouldn't meddle with those…"

His voice broke and faded as he remembered the look of absolute righteousness on the Headmaster's face. Everyone knew that spells and charms could alter the property of magical potions ingredients, even dangerously so. A potion in which they were used could stop working in the way it was intended, or even turn poisonous, which was the reason why Snape himself hadn't tested them. Even Dumbledore wouldn't risk Potter's life that way, unless… unless he was convinced that it was necessary, and could tell himself that the risk was minimal…

Realizing that he had miscalculated badly, Snape cursed under his breath, and without any intention his eyes wandered back to Potter.

"I'll get Tonks, you check the ingredients," The other man decided, and suddenly his tone was that of a leader, so used to commanding and being obeyed that Snape didn't even think before he ripped his bag open and started emptying its contents on the kitchen table.

It was the unicorn hair, the third magical ingredient he checked, and Snape's breath hitched at the thought of what this meddling might have done to the potion. If he had gotten to brewing right away, and Tonks had taken longer to reach the house…

Speaking of Tonks.

He turned around and straightened imperially just as the kitchen door opened and Potter ushered her in.

"The wards are compromised," Potter told him in a tone void of all emotions. "I had to take down the offensive ones since I don't have strength or time to key Tonks in. If anyone was looking for us while Tonks walked up here, they won't have a hard time finding us."

Snape suppressed the acute wish to bang his head against the kitchen wall. He next suppressed the instinct to apologize to Potter – even the thought was ludicrous – and finally reached the one reaction he didn't have to suppress.

"Tonks!" He thundered, not caring that the woman flinched violently under his angry stare. "What the hell do you think you're doing, simply turning up here without any protection? Do you have any idea how risky that was?"

"I don't believe that is very productive, Professor," Potter calmly said, of all things in the world placing a reassuring hand on Tonks' shoulder. "The damage is done, and there is nothing anyone can change about it."

"But… What damage?" Tonks cut in, obviously having understood not a thing. "I just followed that tracking charm Dumbledore asked me to follow – surely there can be no harm in that?"

Snape sighed, wondering whether to feel enraged or simply resigned. "And yet again Gryffindor idiocy has reached a new record height," He remarked icily. "Would you mind switching on your brain, Tonks, or do you only use it on Sundays?"

"Professor," Potter said again, a slight reproach in his voice. "The problem is, Tonks," He then said, turning to petite woman who was sporting violently green hair today. "That, although the Headmaster may not believe it, a certain number of people isn't too pleased with me."

He gracefully ignored Snape's muttered comment that this wasn't surprising at all, since Potter had never been so good at anything as making enemies.

"My house is strongly warded not only to ensure my privacy, but also to keep those who want to harm me and my friends out. Your arrival has activated the wards and thus announced a magical presence. I also had to take down the more active wards in order to protect you, which means that we are out in the middle of nowhere with an unknown number of aggressors heading towards us."

He paused for a moment, letting his eyes travel slowly over the kitchen, all those fine tools he had collected to serve his passion for cooking and baking, and somehow Snape knew that this was the only show of regret and loss he would ever allow himself.

Potter believed this house lost already, Snape realized as he watched him watch his home. Even though nothing might happen, and no one might come, he would never return to live here. It wasn't safe anymore, and the knowledge that the Headmaster's manipulations and Tonks' thoughtlessness had cost Potter his home made the anger rise in him again.

As if sensing what was going on inside him, Potter turned his head towards Snape and gave him a long, pleading look.

"We had better pack," He then said. "It shouldn't take too long – you had better stay here, Tonks."

"Pack?" Tonks asked, only now fully realizing what she had done. "I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry! If I had known what would happen, I'd never have…"

"That's the problem with your likes, isn't it, Tonks?" Snape asked acidly. "You apologize instead of thinking ahead."

But another pleading look from Potter shut him up. After all, it was Potter's home, and Snape had no right to feel as if he had lost something. No right at all.

Packing took less than the quarter of an hour – he had, after all, never completely unpacked, and when he had carefully wrapped up the vials of memories and the heavy pensieve there was little else to do.

Potter took a little longer, but still he was surprisingly quick considering that he had lived here for years. It was probably another result of the life he had led, Snape thought, that he had only few personal belongings left that held any real importance to him.

"We had better leave then," He said, heading over to open the kitchen door, since Tonks wasn't able to apparate from the house yet.

"No."

Potter's voice was as cold and emotionless as it had been back in the infirmary, and it offered as few options as it had back then.

"It is too late. They are already coming, and I won't leave the house open to them."

„How do you know…" Tonks began, but with a curtness untypical for Potter, he cut her off.

„Professor, promise me something," He said, entreating and earnest. „Whatever happens, don't take me to Ayda. The druids would do anything to help me, but they can't risk a confrontation with the wizarding world. Do you promise it?"

For a moment, Snape considered arguing, questioning what Potter was intending to do or why he should care about the safety of a woman as irritating as Ayda. But he saw the worry in Potter's eyes, and the pleading the other man didn't bother to disguise, and nodded shortly.

"I promise, Potter," He said, and suddenly, all concern vanished from the other man's body, leaving a face as serene and happy as that of any child lost in its games.

"Thank you, Professor," He said. "Don't feel bad, Tonks. You couldn't know."

Once more he turned his attention towards the house, and, touching the kitchen table in a way that seemed irritatingly intimate, whispered a goodbye.

Then, before Snape could realize what he was planning, before he could move or react, Potter ripped open the kitchen door and was gone, standing outside in nothing but his crumpled shirt and soft cotton trousers, unprotected and defenceless like a child in the storm.

"Keep them inside, raise the anti-apparition wards and prepare for full hiding" Potter commanded, his head half turned back to the house, and, as if in answer, the front door of the house fell shut with a determination alike to that on Potter's face.

Snape bit out a string of words that had Tonks turn to him in shocked surprise. Although he was famous for his eloquence, the young Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had probably never heard it employed in this region of vocabulary, but other colleagues had told him that his swear words were impressive.

Not that they were helping him now.

Two steps brought him over to the back door and he tried the knob hastily, knowing at the same time that it was completely useless. He had felt the wards Potter had erected around his house. There was no chance in hell that he could ever dismantle them alone, not to mention that he had no interest in leaving the house defenceless.

"Why doesn't he want to leave the house?" Tonks asked helplessly, standing in the middle of the kitchen as if she had forgotten what to do.

"There's a potion lab in here that holds probably two thirds of the most dangerous potions and poisons ever invented," Snape answered shortly. "Not to mention the grimoires in his living room. Every dark wizard would kill to lay his hands on those alone. Beings the responsible imbecile that he is, Potter probably feels the need to protect these items from falling into the wrong hands."

He bit out the most powerful unlocking spell that he knew, then, when nothing happened, followed it up with every de-warding and opening charm he had ever heard of. The house wasn't even polite enough to react.

"But why did he lock us in here?" Tonks asked, and Snape groaned in frustration, both at the situation that left him helplessly gazing out of the kitchen window, and at Tonks stupidity.

"Because he's used to handling things on his own, and seeing how you behave, I can quite understand him," He hissed, and saw Tonks' face settling into a hurt look.

He was glad that Potter wasn't here to see it, he would probably have scolded Snape for being nasty, never mind the situation they were in.

Rounding up his collection of swear words with a few choice ones about Gryffindors and aurors, Snape stepped towards the window, fighting the urge to rush through the house and try every window or door. It was no use. They were in here, and Potter was out there, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

He could only watch.

Snape saw them before Tonks did: a group of perhaps a dozen men and women, clothed in elegant, expensive black robes, walking calmly towards Potter as if there was nothing in the world that could stop them.

From the look of them compared to Potter's tousled hair and crumpled outfit, Snape felt prone to agree.

Potter simply stood there, waiting for them to approach him.

"What is he doing?" Tonks now asked, amazement in her voice. "He's giving up his one advantage! Why doesn't he attack?"

"He's Potter," Snape answered, more resigned than anything else. "And being Potter, he's giving them a chance to withdraw peacefully. He would feel guilty otherwise."

"Guilty?" Tonks repeated stupidly, her eyes fixed on Potter who was slowly advancing towards the black clad group, his hands raised in a peaceful gesture. "There are twelve of them!"

Snape just shrugged. "It only makes sense when you're Potter," He answered simply.

Snape performed a silent enhancing spell on his eyes and saw an ugly sneer form on the face of the group's leader. Obviously, Potter's peace offering hadn't been received well, and the group spread out quickly to surround their single adversary.

Potter just nodded, once, and although his back was turned to Snape, the Potions Master knew exactly how his face would look, tired, a bit sad, but accepting that this was the choice the other man had made.

Then, Potter raised his right hand.

"Where did that come from?" Tonks asked, goggling at the simple wooden staff that had suddenly appeared in the man's hand.

Snape hissed in irritation. "I have no doubt that there's an endless reservoir of rather obvious and inconsequent questions inside you, just waiting to bubble up, but if you don't stop articulating them in my presence soon, Tonks, I swear…"

He fell silent. The leader of the group had drawn his wand.

Potter dodged the red spell that looked suspiciously like a Cruciatus with barely a twitch of his muscles, stepped forward and fell to one knee.

He brought the simple brown wood up in a slicing motion, and Snape wanted to groan in frustration, for this staff couldn't even hurt a muggle, not to mention break through the magic shields of a wizard.

Tonks at his side gasped as wood cut through magic and flesh and the black wizard screamed in agony. Potter twisted on his knee and opened the slicing motion to a wide arc that sent the other end of the staff at the throat of the next wizard, who fell to the ground immediately, blood gashing from a cut that had nearly removed his head from his shoulders.

Standing in a smooth, incredibly fast motion, Potter brought the staff around full circle and let it engage under his right armpit, pointing at a group of witches that was about to attack.

Thick blue smoke oozed from the end of the staff and broke through their combined shields without effort, having them gagging and retching on their knees barely a second later.

Without looking, Potter threw his hand out to the left and three wizards who had crept up to him from behind were flung away suddenly, their bodies twisting and re-forming in midair as if an invisible hand was doing unspeakable things to them.

They fell to the ground in bloody heaps, lying very still.

From a group of twelve well-trained wizards, only five were left alive. And Harry Potter wasn't even sweating.

"Blimey," Tonks whispered, watching the corpses with a mixture of awe and fear, but Snape was concentrating on the five enemies left, who were obviously recovering from the shock and regrouping.

He fixed his eyes on Potter and saw a slight trembling running through his slender frame, like the strings of a violin under too much pressure.

Snape saw Potter grasp his staff tighter and stand more erect. _He knows it too,_ He thought, breathless with worry. _It's only a matter of minutes before the seizure takes him over, and then he will be helpless in front of his enemies. He must end this fast_.

As if Potter had heard his silent evaluation and agreed, he suddenly exploded into action. Dodging the red and green lights of Unforgivables, he crossed the distance between him and the black clad men and women, his staff a whirl of motion.

He cut three of their wands in half and finished off a fourth wizard with a kick to his head that sent the man to the ground, his neck twisted in an unnatural angle. Before the three now unarmed wizards could grasp their second wands, green light had engulfed them and they crumpled to the ground.

But the seizure was on him now. Potter's hands lost the strength to hold his staff and he dropped to his knees, calm and peace spreading through his body. The last wizard standing realized his chance, raised his wand and let loose a string of red flashes that sped towards his now defenceless enemy.

Potter raised his hand in a gesture that was all too known to Snape by now, he raised his hand and _shoved_, his body shaking with the effort.

The spells vanished in mid air.

And so did the wizard who had fired them. One moment he was standing in front of Potter's fallen body, a triumphant sneer in his face, the next moment there was only air and grass, and the eerie silence of the battlefield.

Slowly, every motion an agony, Potter fell, his body connecting with the ground just as the blue lights began to emerge from his body.

Potter's legs and arms shook. His back arched up and his head lolled back in an ugly caricature of his earlier graceful movements. The blue light intensified, crackling over him and lending the scene around him an unearthly colour.

With a hiss of urgency, Snape once more crossed to the back door and grabbed the doorknob hard.

The door didn't open.

The blue light over Potter's body intensified.

"I don't care what he ordered you to do, house," Snape growled, oblivious to the fact that he was quarrelling with a building. "If you don't let me out there, he will die. I can't imagine that to be in your interest, or is it?"

Floorboards creaked slightly, as if the house was contemplating his words. Then, slowly and with obvious hesitation, the door clicked open.

Snape didn't notice Tonk's eyes staring at his back. All he saw was the cowering, shaking figure on the front lawn, the single movement among the silent chaos of death.

He rushed towards Potter, his wand out and ready to throw shielding spells, but the man had obviously done a marvellous job. None of the men and women that were scattered around the house seemed alive anymore.

He slapped Potter hard, twice, and added a slight burning hex for good measure. He knew that there was no chance to get Potter to his bathroom or to the lab before the pain and pressure got too much for his body. This might very well be the end.

But it seemed that, for once, his luck held, and the tendrils of magic withdrew into Potter's body with a hissing sound that reminded Snape of an angry cat. Potter's body dropped to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut.

"Idiot," Snape hissed, but his hands were gentle as he moved Potter into a more comfortable position.

One brilliant green eye cracked open and the corner of Potter's lips twitched, as if trying for his usual smile but not really finding the strength.

"My enemies, my problems," He whispered, then his eyes closed and his body slackened.

"Is he…" Tonks, who had slowly approached the battlefield with awe and fear warring in her face, whispered.

"Don't be stupid, Tonks," Snape hissed. "He's just unconscious. We wouldn't be here anymore if he was dead."

Snape stood again, his eyes scanning the area around them.

"What are we going to do now?" Tonks asked, her voice quivering as she, too, surveyed the bodies scattered around them.

Snape's shoulders slumped. The safety of this house was compromised, and he had neither an idea how to bring the offensive wards back up, nor, he was uncomfortably sure, the power to do it.

Shadow wasn't an option. If he appeared with an unconscious Potter in the middle of the tavern, the vampires would demand to turn him, and Snape had no power or authority to convince them otherwise. He doubted that the centaurs possessed facilities adequate to the accommodation of injured wizards.

And he had promised Potter not to take him to Ayda.

Snape fervently searched his memories for friends, acquaintances or colleagues that might provide them shelter. But it was the Boy Who Lived they were talking about. A legend that was believed dead by most of the world. He trusted no one with this secret, and, besides, his friends weren't that widely spread.

He took a few steps towards the house, as if his body demanded activity in the face of his helplessness, then turned back around to Tonks and the still unconscious Potter.

"I don't know," He admitted. "Perhaps one of the old Order safehouses. They shouldn't be in use anymore…"

"That wouldn't do," Tonks disagreed, crouching down to examine Potter's face.

"Oh, I know," She exclaimed suddenly, her face smoothing to the happy thoughtless expression she usually wore as she unclasped a pendant she wore around her neck. "We'll take him to Hogwarts. I have a portkey to Dumbledore's office…"

"No," Snape shouted harshly and rushed towards her, but before he could reach her she had grabbed Potter and engaged the key.

"See you at Hogwarts," She shouted, and then she was off. Taking Harry Potter with her.

This time, Snape's vocabulary impressed even himself.

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**A/N**: I hope you liked the plot twist! Now go and tell me so!


	29. Before the Taking of a Toast and Tea

**Before the Taking of a Toast and Tea**

Snape reached the house in a near run, grabbed the bag with pensieve and memories in it and slid Potter's backpack on his shoulder.

He still wasn't quite able to believe how fast this afternoon had descended into catastrophe.

And now Potter was back at Hogwarts, alone, unconscious, in the presence of the man whom he disliked more than any other these days, a man whom Snape had openly antagonized only this noon.

Fuck.

Snape left the house in a hurry, but a strange nagging caused him to turn back to it once before apparating.

"Thank you for letting me help him," He announced, feeling incredibly foolish. "It was the right thing to do."

Certainly houses couldn't wink. Snape was quite sure about that. But somehow this house managed to create the impression nevertheless, one shutter on the second floor twitching for a moment and the back door flapping open once in the imitation of a smile.

Then, the house vanished.

Snape gaped, and, although he knew he didn't have time for it, did a quick location charm on the area.

There was nothing here. Not even a trace of magic. The wards had disappeared, and so had the house and the shed. He was standing on a random hill in the midst of Skye that was as unmagical a place as he had ever seen.

After a moment of silent amazement, Snape decided that the impossible vanishing of a house was very low on his priority list at the moment. He straightened, steeling himself for the confrontation that was sure to come, and apparated away.

The winged boars atop Hogwarts' entry gate greeted him with their usual offensive stare, but for once Snape refrained from any comment about the lacking taste in Hogwarts' architecture as he made the trip up to the castle in record time. Every minute would increase the catastrophe he was walking into, and it would be his job to clear it up.

The thought of him and the staff of Hogwarts fighting over the unconscious body of one Harry Potter made him smile in cold amusement, but that amusement faded quickly when the personal consequences of this day sank into his mind.

He had confronted Dumbledore less than three hours ago, in the safe knowledge that he was needed and that the man who had caused their rift was tucked away in an unplottable house. Now however said man was at Hogwarts, his considerable power useless and even his opinion unavailable since it was locked in his unconscious mind.

He would have to step up to Dumbledore – and to Pomfrey and Minerva and all the others – openly and defend his role and rights towards his patient (and even the thought that he was defending his right to spend endless hours in Potter's memories was tasting of approaching madness).

He wasn't used to doing such a thing. Not many people had dared confront him over the years, at least not over matters less trivial than house rivalry, and, he had to admit in the shameful privacy of his mind, those who _had_ usually had gotten what they wanted.

He was a _Slytherin_, for Merlin's sake. Slytherins were not made for open quarrel. Confronting a Slytherin would mean that he nodded and agreed and then slipped away to destroy your power base from behind your back. Or, in Snape's case, lace the morning tea with exotic poisons.

But now he had no time for political manoeuvering or a little elegant blackmailing. He was stumbling into the situation head first, and he wasn't liking it, not one bit.

Perhaps, he wondered as he rushed up the stairs to the infirmary, perhaps it wasn't so bad to leave the situation in Dumbledore's hands. They had, after all, the same goal, and whatever could be said about the Headmaster, he was an efficient and powerful leader of war.

Surely Potter himself would agree that this was necessary – they could waste no time over authority struggles when the fate of the wizarding world was at risk…

All thoughts of that kind evaporated, however, when he entered the Hospital Wing and found Madame Pomfrey busy disrobing the unconscious Potter, with the rest of the staff milling around the bed like a horde of vultures.

They wouldn't even grant him privacy, he thought, furious. And what would they do when they saw the scars they had no right to see, because he hadn't trusted them with it? Wail and blubber and force him to talk about it, when there was no use talking about a thing like that, when it was his right to keep them private?

If they couldn't even respect his dignity with his body, how would they treat his memories?

"Take your hands off him," Snape snarled, realizing to his dismay that he sounded like a jealous lover. "He's my patient, and if anyone has to examine him, that will be me."

Pomfrey looked ready to argue, but Snape sent her a glare, his own fiercest look combined with a good impersonation of Shadow, and the unbelievable happened: Madame Pomfrey blanched and backed off.

"I'll be in my office then," She announced, and hurried away with barely a shred of dignity left.

"You," Snape now addressed the teachers crowding the room. "Out."

"Now, Severus," Dumbledore's admonishing voice cut through the shocked silence. "I'm sure…"

"He may be badly injured, Headmaster," Snape pointed out coldly. "Do you really want to risk his life and the future of this world to satisfy your curiosity?"

He could see Sprout to his left shudder, and before he could add another acerbic little tidbit, Minerva grabbed Dumbledore's arm and dragged him from the room.

Dumbledore only managed a short command to come and tell him how 'poor Harry' was when he was finished before the infirmary door closed behind him.

Examining the room closely for any hidden presence, Snape took a deep breath. The unexpected had happened – he had actually managed to throw a bunch of the most meddlesome and irritating wizards and witches out of Hogwarts' infirmary, the traditional place of meddling with Harry Potter's life.

For a moment he was proud of his own authority, only to remember that he had shamelessly copied Shadow. Which led him back to the unconscious figure on the bed.

He ran a swift set of diagnosis spells, which only confirmed what he had assumed before. Potter had fallen into his usual exhausted post-seizure sleep, but otherwise he was fine. No injuries from the battle, no curses or poisons.

Which was amazing, really, considering that there had been twelve well trained wizards and witches against one very ill man with a wooden stick.

After a moment of replaying the rather surprising fight in his mind, Snape decided not to worry about that at the moment. There were more urgent things to contemplate than Potter's past performance. His future, for example.

He hesitated to wake Potter, since unconsciousness was as good a protection for him as he could get at the moment. Even awake his powers would be nonexistent, and sleep at least saved him from being forced to dodge questions and suffer his former teachers' bursts of curiosity.

But it wouldn't do for Potter to wake up in the presence of Dumbledore, Pomfrey or McGonagall either, disoriented and without the knowledge of what had happened. And from what Snape had seen of Potter after his seizures, going to sleep again wouldn't be a problem.

Carefully, Snape placed several strong silencing charms around them and closed the curtains around Potter's bed. Pomfrey didn't need to know that Potter had woken up.

"Envervate," He then whispered and Potter's eyelids fluttered as if answering a silent call.

One look up at the white ceiling and at the dark figure of Snape seemed enough for Potter to evaluate the situation and draw the right conclusions.

"Damn," He whispered, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

"Indeed," Snape agreed dryly. "I don't know what the Headmaster has planned for you yet, but at least I could make sure that Pomfrey will keep her hands off you. I am going to meet with Dumbledore soon, but I'm not sure what is going to happen. You had better prepare yourself, Potter."

For a moment, the ghost of Potter's softly mocking smile darted across his face. "Prepare for what?" He whispered, although the bitterness shadowing his words told Snape that he knew the answer to that question all too well.

"For whatever I won't manage to prevent. I doubt that Dumbledore still trusts me, and my influence on him has never been great. But I will do what I can."

Green eyes darkened with worry.

"Don't," Potter whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Don't risk your life and position here for a fight that isn't yours, Professor," He answered. "You did more than I ever expected already. It helps no one if you anger Dumbledore. This isn't your fault. Just accept that this is how things developed."

"And leave you to whatever schemes the old man may come up with?" Snape demanded, his voice rising. "Tell me Potter, are you so eager to have Dumbledore inside your mind?"

Potter flinched. It was the first sign of fear the other men had shown since they had begun this strange journey together, and it told Snape more clearly that Potter didn't want to be here, didn't want to be left in the power of his former Headmaster than any verbal declaration could.

Potter was afraid. And still he didn't want Snape to risk his position with helping him.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Potter's voice was rasping, clouded with tiredness and pain. "Had I known how all this would develop, I wouldn't have forced you to treat me. I just wanted someone I could feel comfortable with. It was selfish of me. I appreciate what you did for me, but this is where it should end."

The thought of Potter requesting time with him and even considering it a privilege made Snape itchy all over again, but his answer was as curt and down to the point as always.

"And had I known that you would turn soppy on me, I would have sealed my ears with wax before waking you, Potter. No one but I will decide what I am going to do, neither you nor Dumbledore. Now go to sleep."

"But, Professor…"

"Sleep, Potter," He thundered, and with a strange mixture of relief and worry on his face, Potter closed his eyes obediently.

Without a word, Snape wove the strongest and most sensitive wards around Potter's bed, wards that would tell him of any being approaching the unconscious man immediately and stop said being in the nastiest way Snape could come up with except from frying it, as well as of any change in his medical status.

"I am leaving now," He announced curtly and received a nod in answer.

"Be careful," Potter whispered, as if it wasn't he who was balancing precariously between life and death.

"Don't give advice you yourself won't pay heed to, Potter."

Stalking over to Pomfrey's office, Snape threw open the door, a forbidding expression ready on his face, and had the immense satisfaction of the nurse flinching violently behind her desk. He'd have to thank Shadow, sometime in the future.

Curtly, he informed her that Potter was well and needed nothing but his rest and an absence of meddling mediwitches, a comment that caused Pomfrey to bristle and regain some of her obnoxious attitude. Another glare shrunk her again, and Snape found that he started enjoying his new role as defender of Potter.

What a shame that his glare wouldn't work with Dumbledore, and that the Headmaster was probably powerful enough to break through Snape's wards with a bit of effort.

He was nearly hopeful – if, indeed, such a word could be used in connection with his character – as he walked to the Headmaster's office, hopeful that the situation wouldn't prove as difficult and potentially catastrophic as he had imagined it on his way to Hogwarts.

Perhaps a stern and determined approach to the matter could startle Dumbledore and his merry band of teachers into keeping Potter's presence under lock and key. Perhaps if he argued carefully and convincingly, and pointed out the risks of security and the necessity to fully concentrate on the therapy, perhaps if he brought up the necessity to keep his patient as free of mental and emotional stress as possible…

The blinding smile and carefree twinkle that turned the Headmaster's face into something not entirely healthy for a Slytherin mind made all such hopes wither and die. Obviously, Dumbledore had already done something to further his preferred path of action, and judging from the happiness that radiated from the old man, it was something of unprecedented stupidity.

Gryffindors.

"Why, Severus, my dear," Dumbledore greeted him as if their confrontation this afternoon hadn't happened. "I trust that Mr Potter is well?"

"As well as he could be, suffering from the Fading and severe magical exhaustion caused by the imbecile would-be Professor you sent after me, Albus," Snape answered, carefully to keep his voice clear of any but the usual bad mood. It wouldn't do to increase the impression that he stood with Potter, against the Headmaster.

Tired resignation towards the idiocies of this world worked well, however, since that was Snape's general state of mind whenever he was present at Hogwarts.

"Now, now, I'm sure Nymphadora meant no harm," Dumbledore scolded him lightly, and Snape had to concentrate hard to keep his face set in the forbidding expression he usually wore.

_No, she probably didn't_, He thought angrily, careful to strengthen his Occlumency shields and avoid the Headmaster's gaze. _But that can't be said of a certain old madman who put a spell on magical potions ingredients, which might have killed the one man we are all fighting to keep alive._

"It is irrelevant what she intended," He said instead, his voice as harsh and vindictive as it usually was when he complained about his colleagues. "The damage is done."

"Damage is a bit strong, dear boy," The Headmaster corrected him mildly. "After all, you yourself told me that Harry is well. I am sorry about his house, of course," He smiled a bit sadly and Snape felt the acute wish to gag. "But you said yourself that it wasn't much of anything. And after all, Hogwarts has always been and will always be his real home. Here, we can treat him much better and safer than anywhere else. I am sure he will see that himself, now that he has realized he can't protect himself properly."

_Can't protect himself?_ For a moment Snape wondered whether Tonks had given a particularly unclear report or whether Dumbledore had started to believe in his own euphemisms somewhere along the way.

Then he decided that it didn't matter.

"What are you planning to do with the boy?" He asked instead, taking care to lace the last word with a healthy dose of disgust.

"Naturally our first concern must be Harry's health," Dumbledore answered, and if Snape had known him less well, he would have breathed a sigh of relief. But he knew intimately that the Headmaster seldom stated a fact without a huge 'but' attached to it.

"But…" Dumbledore continued and Snape felt a growl build deep in his throat. "But we must not only see to his physical state. The way the boy has lived isn't good for him, Severus. Isolated, secluded, sequestered from all his friends he must naturally have forgotten what it is he should be living for. Therefore we must remind him of all that is bright and good in this world!"

As if that was the single most intelligent thing a human being had ever uttered, Dumbledore sat up straighter in his chair and beamed blindingly at his Potions Master.

After trying for several seconds to come to terms with all that was wrong in Dumbledore's statement, Snape gave up. If this was what the Headmaster wanted to believe, there was nothing he could do against it. And it certainly wouldn't be in Potter's interest to tell anyone at Hogwarts that he _had_ friends, more than any sane being could ever need, in fact. If they wanted to see him as a poor, scarred, isolated victim, that was probably better than the alternative. At least it made someone in this blasted castle happy.

"And how are you planning to do that, Headmaster?" He asked instead, letting a good deal of his scepticism show. Everyone would expect him to be sceptical when the words 'bright' and 'good' were involved, after all.

"Why, by reuniting him with the wizarding world in general and the Weasleys especially, of course," Dumbledore answered as if this was the most obvious answer. To him it probably was.

"I have already announced a press conference for tomorrow, and was just about to firecall Molly and Arthur when you stepped in."

The Weasleys.

Snape tried to imagine Molly Weasley and her merry band of noisy red heads invading the infirmary and milling around Potter, adding emotional chaos, reproaches and teary speeches to Potter's already high stress level.

And then the newspapers would be printed, and everyone who had ever exchanged a word with Potter would storm Hogwarts, every single journalist in the wizarding world would stand in line to interview the Boy Who Lived about his life.

And then the questions would start in earnest. Where he had been, what he had done with his life. s

How he had killed Voldemort. Why his friends had died, back then, and if he had really done everything to prevent it.

Snape had to fight the urge to close his eyes in silent resignation.

"You know that this course of action wouldn't be Potter's wish," He said, his face expressionless.

"Nonsense, my dear boy," The Headmaster disagreed happily. "He may _think_ that he doesn't want the recognition and gratefulness of all wizards or the reunion with his foster family. But I'm sure that once he has realized how much people love and cherish him, he will be glad to have come back to us. The Boy Who Lived belongs with us, Severus."

The sweet revenge of Albus Dumbledore. After years of manipulation and mistreatment hadn't managed it, why not destroy Potter with an overdose of kindness?

"As his healer I would strongly advice against it, Albus," He tried again, knowing at the same time that it was futile. He met Dumbledore's eyes and saw the old man's triumph twinkling brightly in his eyes. He would never give up this trophy that he had so long done without.

"At least wait until tomorrow before you inform the Weasleys," Snape settled for a compromise. "The… _joy_ could be too much for Potter at the moment, and I doubt that he would survive another seizure so shortly after the last."

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate but then nodded, granting this request gracefully.

"About that, Severus," He then said, the twinkle in his eyes somewhat diminishing and his forehead creasing with a frown. "It is a shame that you couldn't prevent Harry from overexerting himself. Perhaps the tension between you has unconsciously added to the poor boy's stress? Not that I'd ever think you did it willingly, dear child," Dumbledore added hastily and fury surged through Snape when he realized what the Headmaster would do. "But perhaps it is time for a… more gentle approach? I am sure you have done your best, but now that the boy is at Hogwarts, it might be wise for me to take over his treatment, don't you think?"

"It would be more sensible for the same healer to continue the procedure, Albus," He said, although he knew that there was no use. "I know what to look for by now, and, loath as I am to spend more time with Potter, I wouldn't want to burden you with such a time consuming treatment."

"Nonsense, Severus, nonsense," Dumbledore disagreed cheerfully. "It will be a chance for Harry and me to renew our bond!"

Only years of spying and controlling his impulses stopped Snape from showing how sick he felt.

"If you say so, Headmaster," He said without expression.

_I am sorry, Potter_, He thought. _I tried, but there is nothing more I can do._

It was over. All he could achieve now was open quarrel with the Headmaster and an abrupt dismissal, and that would do nothing but worsen Potter's position.

As much as he wanted to grab Dumbledore by his long beard and shake him until he saw reason, he didn't have the sort of power that would make Albus Dumbledore, Leader of the Order of the Phoenix, wartime hero and Headmaster of Hogwarts, back down.

No. _He _didn't, he thought in a moment of surprising clarity, and suddenly a path opened up in front of him, a path he wouldn't have contemplated a day, not even an hour before. Snape didn't have that power.

But perhaps he knew people who did.

"I would advice you not to resume the treatment before tomorrow, Albus," He said, surprised that his voice sounded so normal, so natural, when inside his mind his world had turned upside down and become something else. "Potter needs nothing but sleep and rest by now. Inform him of the new development in the morning."

Dumbledore agreed and saw him off with a twinkle and another smile, obviously surprised and relieved that Snape had had nothing else to criticise.

And again Snape rushed through the corridors of Hogwarts, this time aiming for his own, silent quarters, not allowing himself to question the decision he had made, not daring to doubt whether he did the right thing.

He didn't have time for that sort of thing right now.

After all, he had a letter to write.

0o0o0

A/N: The title of this chapter is from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", standing in the following context:

"There will be time, there will be time / To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; / There will be time to murder and create / And time for all the works and days of hands / That lift and drop a question on your plate; / Time for you and time for me/ And time yet for a hundred indecisions/ And for a hundred visions and revisions/ Before the taking of a toast and tea."

Thank you all for your patience, and review!!!


	30. The Man in Between

The Man in Between 

So here he was, back in his own chambers, safe and sound within the thick and rather damp walls of Hogwarts' dungeons.

Somehow, he had expected to feel happier when he had envisaged this moment at Potter's little cottage of madness, but then he hadn't expected a conflict with his Headmaster, an unconscious Potter in the infirmary and the threat of the Weasleys hanging over him to ruin the moment.

At least there were no students here for the next month. That would have ruined the moment on an entirely different level.

Snape cast a glance at his clock – a proper, useful clock, showing the time and nothing else – and grunted in irritation. Three more hours until the time he had proposed in his letter, and at least an hour until he could hope for confirmation.

Which left him with decidedly more time than he needed to unpack or finally brew that enhanced Pepper Up he had been planning for so long.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, his eyes darted towards a vial filled with the silver of liquid memory, lying on the desk in front of him.

He had found it when unpacking Potter's memories from the case especially spelled for protection, and for a moment he had wondered if he had forgotten to correctly label one of them.

But then he had remembered that strange breakfast with Ayda and the memory she had handed him with the command to 'take a look at it' whenever he had the time.

On the one hand, he didn't feel the wish to enter yet another person's mind – the visits to Potter's memories had left him slightly dizzy and suspicious of anything that could be stored in a pensieve.

On the other hand, he did have time. And leaving the dungeons would only lead to forced interaction with his colleagues, and he couldn't really be trusted to keep his hands off Unforgivables this afternoon.

Grunting once more and silently cursing meddlesome old knife-wielders, Snape emptied the memory into the stone basin of his pensieve, waited until it had turned into a calm sea of silver, and lowered his head down into the liquid.

Darkness. And silence.

It was different to enter a memory alone, he realized after a moment of unconscious waiting for Potter's serene babbling. He had know idea where he was, and, more importantly, _when_ he was, and…

_Concentrate on the hints your surroundings give you, then,_ he commanded himself. _You haven't been a spy for nothing. _

He was standing in a corridor richly decorated, the walls hung with dark red silk, the floor polished wood with inlays of a strange, iridescent colour. A wealthy person's house. He half turned to examine the paintings hung here and there, but before he could discover more, voices approached him swiftly from the darkness

"Really, old bat, sometimes I wonder why we didn't annihilate your race after all. I allow you to borrow my perfectly stable general, and what I get back is an angsty teenager with identity issues. I really don't want to know what'd happen if I lent you a book."

Ayda. Sounding and looking exactly like the woman he had met a few hours ago, but then her age had always seemed impossible to determine. She turned her head towards the person she had been speaking to, and Snape rolled his eyes. Shadow. An immortal was even worse material to judge the process of time from.

"He's more than just a general, woman! He's a human being with…"

"It's easy for you to glorify humanity, bat," Ayda interrupted. "You're spared from the disadvantages."

Shadow seemed more than a bit angry, and Snape was glad that he was just watching a memory, since the last contact with the vampire's wrath had been more than uncomfortable. Shadow also seemed worried, however, worried in the way he had been when finding out about Potter's illness, and to Snape's surprise he saw Ayda's face settle into the same, slightly cross expression. So she was worried, too. He hadn't been quite sure she was capable of that.

"What happened?" She now asked, much of her irritating flippancy gone, and turned fully towards Shadow. "Your vampires didn't eat a little girl in front of him, did they?"

Shadow's brows darkened like a thundercloud (Snape had always abhorred poetic expressions of this calibre, but with Shadow they somehow seemed appropriate). His eyes glittered dangerously in the scarce light of the corridor, and for one moment Snape expected him to attack Ayda.

But whether the odd tension both felt controlled his temper, or whether he had already come into contact with Ayda's knife, he refrained from grabbing her the way he had grabbed Potter, raising an elegant hand and pinching the bridge of his nose instead in a gesture of utter irritation.

"Why do you suppose one of my vampires did something to cause this," He inquired in a barely controlled voice.

Ayda shrugged flippantly. "They always do, don't they?" She answered, but Snape could see that her heart wasn't in it.

"He hasn't had an episode in months," She added, more quiet and subdued than Snape had ever heard her.

Shadow sighed, and for a fleeting moment his face looked almost human.

"One of the younger vampires visited a…client two nights ago," He began, and Ayda snorted at his choice of words. "Gregory found a book on her night stand and took it home with him. He and some of the others read aloud from it, and although they didn't notice him, Harry must have listened for quite some time…"

"What book?"

Shadow sighed again. "The official biography of _Harry Potter – The Boy Who Vanquished the Dark Lord_, by Rita Skeeter," He answered tiredly.

Ayda's anger was audible silence.

"It's understandable, in a way," Shadow continued. "They are all curious about 'their human', and Harry has been less than forthright about his past. When Gregory discovered that book, he and the others were simply…"

"Incredibly dense," Ayda interrupted in a hard voice. "As they always are. What happened then?"

"The book exploded in Gregory's hands. There wasn't a bit of paper left larger than a snowflake, I think. Harry walked through the room without looking at anybody, and he's been sequestered away in his room ever since. I tried to talk to him, but he simply wouldn't…"

"Let me guess," She interrupted again, her face turned upwards to the vampire, eyes glinting with an anger Snape couldn't entirely understand. "You mothered him, didn't you? Told him what a poor boy he was, how much he had suffered, and that the pile of shit his life has turned out to be wasn't his fault."

"It _isn't _his fault, Ayda, and the least thing we can do is…"

"Nonsense, bat! The boy's life has been stripped of anything he ever possessed. He has lost everything he cared for. The least thing we can give him is control and responsibility for what happened."

The tightening lines around Shadow's mouth told Snape clearly that he disagreed, but for reasons he couldn't fathom the vampire refrained from disagreeing. Instead, he shortly nodded his acceptance – or rather resignation – and resumed walking.

"The wards on his room prevent him from hurting himself," He said, his fury a stream of fire barely hidden under his composed surface. "But he hasn't eaten for days and the way he carries on suggests that he won't…"

"Snap out of it himself, I know. I'm going in."

Ayda brushed by him, her eyes and mind already fixed on a door at the far side of the corridor. A hand on her shoulder stopped her, however, and she turned back to the Prince of vampires with a gesture of impatience.

"I don't know what quality you possess that soothes him, old woman," Shadow whispered. "But please, for my sake. Be gentle with him."

Ayda just snorted and after a moment, Snape realized that he had unconsciously joined in.

He followed her through the heavily warded door into a set of rooms that looked much like the ones Shadow had inhabited at the vampire tavern. Only that they were dark. Dark and emanating an atmosphere of dreary unhappiness.

"Harry. So here's where you're hiding."

Ayda's voice was curt and crisp, much like McGonagall's when she found a student in a situation she couldn't quite condone.

It took a moment for Snape's eyes to adjust to the darkness around him. When they did, Snape could make out a shadow in one of the armchairs near what had once been undoubtedly a merrily burning fire, before someone had distinguished it with enough water to fill the great lake.

He stepped closer and saw Potter, knees drawn to his chest, eyes closed to slits, staring into nothing. It didn't seem as if he had noticed Ayda. Snape saw a strange expression cross her face as he watched her, something like pain, like the hurtful memory of a bleeding wound one had received a long time ago, but it was gone before he could analyse it completely.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," She scoffed. "Just because your life is a mess doesn't mean you have to sit in the darkness and angst."

She flung her arms wide in a way Snape had only ever seen with Dumbledore, and the shutters swung wide open, light streamed into the room and air, the song of the birds and the morning sounds of a beautiful day in spring.

"There," She said curtly. "That's much better. Maybe we can talk like grownups now that the melodrama has left the room."

Snape wouldn't have admitted it to anybody, of course, but Ayda's behaviour intrigued him. It was very much like the method he had used with his Slytherins when they had descended into their bouts of self-pity (and them being Slytherins meant that these descents could be a long way, and take a very long time).

Make an entrance grand enough to startle them and redirect their attention from their own, pitiful problems, shock the depression out of them and confront them with a good deal of morning light and rationality. Normally, that was enough to get them back on the road.

Not Potter, though. A tired blink of his eyes was the only reaction he showed to the sudden onslaught of light and Ayda. Whether he was too tired or too depressed, or whether he simply knew this routine too well by now, he didn't seem impressed. Not even interested.

"Go away, Ayda," He said softly, no inflection in his words at all.

While Ayda took her time choosing the most comfortable armchair in the room and moving it so that she could sit opposite to Potter, Snape stepped closer to the man – boy, he corrected himself.

Potter certainly looked older than he had in the last memory Snape had seen, but he lacked the relaxed maturity that made it so easy to accept the present-day Potter as an equal.

Still… Snape stepped even closer, his eyes narrowed in thought. This Potter's face wore more lines and shadows than he had ever seen with his Potter, and his body, clad in black and well muscled for one so young, held an open declaration of power even in this hour of misery that Snape had seldom ever seen in the present one, only in short glimpses when his control had slipped.

The line of his shoulders demanded attention and warned of danger in a way Snape had only ever seen with the great leaders of his time. Now that Snape thought of it, he _had_ sensed this with his Potter, back at the very beginning of this mad week, in the Headmaster's office when he hadn't yet known his identity. _Before the harmless act fooled me_, he thought, surprised by his own realization.

So Potter _had _possessed this sort of authority in the past, possessed it to this day, but had given it up for the image of a harmless young man he usually sported? Stranger and stranger.

Ayda snorted darkly. "I take it you didn't like what your official biographer wrote, Potter," She said.

For one moment, a blast of heat seemed to fill the room as Potter's eyes turned the dark green of the Killing curse and the very air seemed to boil around him.

Snape found himself backing away quickly from this sudden blaze of fury, entirely forgetting that this was not a memory, that this could not hurt him no matter what happened. He had often wondered how the Potter-in-between might have been, the man that had killed Voldemort and understood the lie his own life had been, but had not yet found that eerie serenity the Potter of his time sported.

Now he was rather glad he had never met that man. This combination of power and emotional instability was simply too much.

The sensation lasted no more than a heartbeat before Potter closed his eyes in tired resignation, his head falling back against the armchair and his face losing all expression.

"Go away," He said again. "I don't need you to mock me, Ayda."

"Oh, but every hero needs a court jester by his side," Ayda disagreed happily, but Snape saw that despite her outer disinterest, her eyes were resting on Potter, and she was watching very closely. "It's a dramatic necessity, really, to balance the awe a bit."

The Potter Snape had come to know over the last week would have laughed to that and added a comment or two about jesters and their tendency to be beheaded, but the Potter of this memory didn't even smile.

"I don't want to be a hero," He whispered.

She shrugged, but her eyes showed that she was thinking fiercely. "Then stop," She said.

He laughed, a cold, sudden bark that made Snape twitch in uneasy surprise. "I tried that," He answered darkly. "You and Shadow stopped me."

"God's holy underwear, Potter, there are other ways to change your life than end it. Only teenagers think that suicide is the only way out. Grow up. Do something."

Potter barked again. "Like what," He said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Running away and falling in with a bunch of vampires didn't help, exactly. All it did was give me another bunch of fancy titles and magic marks," He lifted his hair for a moment to display the tattoo Snape had already seen in the vampire tavern. "I've had that all my life."

"Ever considered that it's your attitude, Potter?" Ayda offered. "Barging into a room ready to take responsibility for everything and everybody really isn't the sort of thing that helps you stay in the background."

He sighed. "I have tried all that," He said quietly. "But it seems my destiny to fight, it seems my destiny to…" 

"Bullshit," Ayda simply said, and Snape's expression of surprise was mirrored on Potter's face.

„"There is nothing like that thing called destiny, Potter," She now continued, her voice rough and strong and very confident. "There are outside forces that determine your life, like the sun, the rain, the soil and the river determine a tree's life, but there is no fate, no grand scheme of existence you or I have to follow."

She pointed up to the ceiling. "Nobody up there gives a damn if we live or die. Nobody cares, unless we do. Nothing is pre-determined. There is no master plan."

Potter stared at her for a long time.

"If that is true, then my life has had no value at all," He finally said, quietly. "I have spent it living up to a prophecy, to a destiny that I never wanted. It's either believe in fate or to have thrown away everything I held dear for nothing."

Ayda pursed her lips in frustration.

"You _are_ dense," She announced decisively, and Snape's lips curled in amusement without his will. "That you weren't _meant_ to do these things doesn't make them less valuable. Let's face it, brat, you saved the world. Repeatedly. It seems to be a hobby of yours."

"I did not save the world. My friends did. And then I got them killed."

"Doesn't change the end result, I'd say."

"The end result is that my friends died."

"Oh, your _friends_ died," Ayda echoed mockingly, and Potter sprang to his feet so quickly that Snape backed away in surprise.

"Don't you dare," He hissed, his sudden fury frightening Snape. He was no longer used to the angry Potter. "Don't you dare mock my friends! They were better than I ever could be, and you have no idea what happened to them, you have no idea…"

His anger crumbled in the presence of a pain so great Snape couldn't name it, couldn't even imagine it, and he whirled around and punched the wall with all his strength, and the sound of breaking bones made Snape wince.

Potter however didn't even seem to feel the wound he had caused himself. Slowly, like an old man, he rested his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes in desperation.

Silence fell on the room, suffocating every thought, until Ayda stood, slowly, and walked over to Potter.

"Harry," She whispered, her usually dry and scratchy voice suddenly soft. "It's been a year. A year, and still you can't even bear speaking their names. You are not helping anybody with this."

"Perhaps that's because I never wanted _this_, Ayda," He answered, his voice scathing in its anger. "I just wanted it to stop. Want it still. It's _you_ who want me to go on, you and Shadow, preaching to me about the joys of life and all the wonderful things I could still do. And what are they? Killing yet another bunch of Death Eaters? Leading others into their ruin? Be the hero for yet another bunch of imbeciles that pant after lies they can spread about me? I've had _enough _of it all!"

Ayda sighed, and it was impossible to judge from her face what she thought, whether she was shocked by his outbreak or happy about it.

"Harry," She said, only to be interrupted by a snarl of rage.

"Don't _Harry_ me, Ayda," He hissed. "I've had seven years of that, being led on a leash by Dumbledore, being made to believe that what happened to me was _right_ and _necessary_. He manipulated me till the death of everyone I ever loved, and I won't ever allow that to happen again! My life is a joke, a chapter in a history book, but nothing more. And now that I've killed the bastard and rounded up his Death Eaters it's over! I'm finished. It would only be fair to let me go!"

"You're not the only one who got his loved ones killed, brat," Ayda said quietly. "My daughter and her husband died under my command during the first war."

Concern and worry replaces Potter's anger so quickly as if it had never existed.

"Ayda, I'm sorry," He now whispered. "That was thoughtless of me. Of course I didn't want to say…"

"You're doing it again," Ayda interrupted once more. "I don't want you to ignore your pain in favour of mine, Harry. I want you to understand that you can't avoid death, or pain, at least not with the sort of life we're leading. Nor can you avoid guilt. And I'm not telling you that it wasn't your fault. I don't know what happened down there. I'm just saying that they weren't destined to die, and that the only value of their life and death can come from you. Accept your guilt and learn from it, or leave them to have died in vain."

"That's just guilting me into 'living on for the sake of others', Ayda, and you know it," Potter answered, his mocking voice turning the words into something ugly. "I'm still alive, right? I've accepted my duties and responsibilities, and I promise that I won't try to kill myself. Happy? Then leave me alone."

Tired resignation again. Potter's moods were changing faster than Peeves' now, and Snape finally understood what Ayda had told him during their impromptu breakfast. This was a Potter unable to deal with his pain and his past, and emotionally unstable Potter who longed for death just because he couldn't face his life.

It was a far cry from the quiet acceptance _his_ Potter had shown, and not to see the difference and accepts its consequences would have been foolish.

Snapes were never foolish. It wasn't compatible with their genes.

"I tell you something, Harry," Ayda now said, suddenly very serious. She moved her hands in a gesture Snape didn't recognize, and for a moment Snape understood how this old woman could be a leader of the druids.

"If you should ever choose death willingly, not out of fear or stupidity but because you decided, freely, that it is the right path, I promise to respect your decision and aid you in whatever way I can. But such a decision requires maturity and calmness and an understanding of your own life. At the moment, you are lacking all of that. You are like a small child in the storm that has given up because it doesn't know the way home, and giving up is something I _don't_ accept."

Whether it was her words or the strange gesture she had made, Potter seemed to recognize the honesty of her promise. Something seemed to lift from his shoulders, and he turned away from the wall, to meet her eyes.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked quietly.

"Stop hiding behind your past," She said roughly, but even Snape could hear how much she cared. "Deal with it, in whatever way you have to. When you have grown beyond this, and mourned for them, and discovered ways into the future you could take, then you can come to me, and I will help you with whatever you have decided. It is hard, believe me, I know that better than most, but not doing it would be even more stupidity than I have come to expect from you."

Potter nodded again, showing that he had understood, and something in his face told Snape that he had, and that the strange promise Ayda had given meant something to him.

"What did you do, back when your family died?" He asked softly, not quite managing to meet her eyes.

She grinned, a fierce, feral expression that made her face look younger and older at the same time.

"Well, first I killed every single bastard who hurt them, but since you pretty much took care of that already, you could probably move to Step Two directly."

"Step Two?"

"Let go of all that hurt and anger and pain. It's only burdening you, and no one on earth cares if you angst yourself to death," She paused for a moment and cocked her head thoughtfully. "Except for Shadow and his merry band of imbeciles, but I'm rather sure they could find a new occupation."

He smiled, softly, hesitatingly, but it was the first real smile Snape had seen in this memory.

"I might agree," He said. "But how do you do that?"

"Letting go?"

"Hmm."

"Hell if I know," She answered. "It always seemed to come rather naturally to me. Probably to do with the brain capacity. But what I can promise is to kick you in the head if I see you doing it wrong."

She grinned broadly, as if the thought of kicking him was just making her day, and as if in answer, Potter's smile grew, softening the lines in his face and lighting up the shadows that nested below his eyes. And Snape saw, only for a moment, dancing across his face like a beam of sunshine, the man that Potter would become, one day, the man mature enough to see his paths and settle for the right one.

"That's a beginning, I guess," Potter said softly, and the room melted into the mists of the pensieve.

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A/N: Thank you for your patience, my dear, wonderful readers! If you want explanations for my overly long absence, or answers to your questions posted in reviews, or update notices, please go to my lifejournal (homepage-link on my author profile).

That said – please review!


	31. Showdown at Twilight

**Showdown at Twilight**

They were in the infirmary. Again. All of them.

From the safety of the door, Snape rolled his eyes in utter irritation. How these people had managed to keep a school going, not to mention win a war was a mystery to him.

Today had been a perfect, sunny day that could be filled with so many useful, necessary things, and what were they entertaining themselves with? Potter watching.

At least they hadn't woken him up.

Scrutinizing them all, he found to his disappointment that none of them had even tried to breach the wards. A pity. But then they probably knew him long enough to foresee his precautions and the absolute glee he would feel at finding one of them a victim to his wards.

Perhaps it was really time to start anew. Perhaps he should find himself a school where no one knew him, where no one would carefully avoid his private quarters and any place he took a personal interest in…

No time to dream, really. But still it was a pity.

"Since none of you seems to be occupied with anything sensible," He announced, frightening them all with his sudden and noiseless entry. "I would ask you to accompany me to the Forbidden Forest. There is something there that might be of interest to all of you."

_Or at least I hope there is_, He thought, sending a short glance out of the window, towards the sun setting over the trees of the forest.

"Something of interest?" Minerva inquired, one raised eyebrow prompting him to elaborate.

"Yes," He said, tremendously enjoying the way they all hang onto his lips, hoping for a little bit more. "That is what I said."

Ah, the joys of simple minded companions!

Of course they fussed, questioned him and made a generally noisy affaire of what had sounded so simple and cunning in the planning phase, but he scowled a lot and handed them a few evasive answers, once again thankful for the reputation he had carefully cultivated for years.

With anybody else they would have demanded to know what was going on, or why he was leading the entire staff of Hogwarts – yes, even Filch, who had to Snape's own surprise been sulking silently in a corner of the infirmary – out of the castle's safety. With their Potions Master however, they simply assumed that general unpleasantness and years of necessary sneakiness combined to build his rather melodramatic behaviour.

Well, good for him. It was their own fault if they assumed so much.

But as he watched them huddled together near the Qudiditch pitch, their expectant eyes travelling the edges of the Forbidden Forest, he couldn't help but wonder what exactly he was doing.

He had known these people for years, had sneered at them for most of his life and successfully worked together with them. Well, worked together. The success had most often been an accident or the result of extra work on his part.

Despite their ability to irritate him day and again, he had become attached to them. A week ago, he would perhaps have said that he felt content among them. And now he had brought them here.

He answered Minerva's rising irritation with a few vague hints and a few rather well-phrased comments about the total absence of patience in their group.

Then, he leaned against a tree to wait.

Darkness was falling steadily over the school grounds. As if having expected an audience, the sun set in one of the most spectacular displays Snape had ever seen, with lots of red and gold light effects that uneasily reminded him of his Gryffindor patient back in the infirmary, alone except for the huffing Madame Pomfrey that couldn't get through his wards.

He had told Snape explicitly not to do this, had advised him to choose the Slytherin way, and what had he done? That was what happened when one mingled with Gryffindors, Snape thought darkly. Their righteousness was just like a virus.

"Severus, whatever this thing you wanted us to see is, I really don't find myself willing to wait much longer. I have, after all, a school to run," Dumbledore now announced, his usual joviality dimmed a bit by the falling temperatures and the indignity of his position.

"Just a moment, Headmaster," Snape replied coolly, but his eyes were scanning the tree line rather nervously now. If they didn't come…

But then he saw a shape step out of the Forbidden Forest, a figure with the upper body of a man and the lower body of a horse, and silently breathed a sigh of relief.

He stepped away from the tree to join his colleagues, pointing silently towards the shape.

"A centaur?" Dumbledore asked, his surprise badly hidden. "What exactly is going on, Severus?"

"More than one," Tonks commented from Snape's left, her voice and body tense. Interaction with centaurs was always difficult, and for more than one of them to leave the woods at the same time, there had to be something strange going on indeed.

More and more horsemen stepped out of the forest, their bodies building a wall that was slowly advancing towards them.

Dumbledore took a step towards the forest and raised his hands as if in greeting, but before he could open his mouth, a gasp from Tonks and a hasty whisper from Minerva turned his attention to the left and right flank of the centaurs. There were other figures walking alongside them, Snape recognized human shapes clad in white to their left and in black to their right, advancing with the same, solemn steps the centaurs were taking. And wherever they had come from, there were many of them.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice now sharp and commanding, and Snape stepped to his side obediently.

He could distinguish faces by now, Chairon and the centaur that had led them to the forest garden, Ayda, clad in white, and men and women with the same aura of wildness by her sides, and to the right he could see the dark, charismatic face of Shadow, accompanied by at least thirty of his immortals. The unnatural paleness of their skin was already visible, and another gasp from Tonks told Snape that they had been recognized for what they were.

"Vampires," Dumbledore whispered and drew his wand in a fluent gesture. "Oh Severus, what have you done?"

Snape stepped away from the group of teachers and turned towards them, fiercely aware that he had turned his back towards an army with unclear intentions, an army of beings with supernatural strength that could snap his neck before he could move.

"These are Potter's friends," He announced, his voice clear and calm and mockingly superior. "I thought you should meet them before you decide his fate."

He turned around again, his back now to the equally unclear intentions of his colleagues.

The view was impressive. His letters had been urgent, if short, and obviously his correspondents had decided that a show of strength was in order.

And what strength. More than a hundred beings filled the space all to the edge of the forest, and Snape would have been surprised if there weren't more waiting in the shadows among the trees. Whatever could be said about Shadow and Ayda, they were not careless.

What they had brought was an army capable of invading Hogwarts, capable of holding it against the wizarding world if necessary. For a moment, Snape felt cold all over, but then he pulled himself together and met the serious gaze of the Stallion King, nodding gravely and receiving one of their strange bows in answer. He turned towards Shadow, dark eyes meeting dark eyes, and bowed slowly, expressing his wish to surrender and his hope for a fair treatment with the gestures of his hand.

He could hear the teachers in his back breathing quickly, could nearly smell their fear. Vampires had been the curse of the second war, these strong, silent killers that were nearly invincible, and their presence had to frighten some of his colleagues senseless.

But to see this strange alliance of men, vampires and centaurs, united as they were, deep within the defences of Hogwarts was a sight no one had expected to ever see, and Snape could feel fear warring with awe within himself.

Then, Ayda stepped forward and ruined the moment.

Nothing new there.

"Hello," Ayda greeted them brightly. "We have come to take over the castle, imprison you all and control the information in- and outflow over the next days. Don't feel threatened, we'll only kill you if you're trying to cross us."

"Madame…" Dumbledore addressed the madness that was Ayda with, Snape had to admit, admirable courage and the clear wish to keep within the bounds of conventional manners.

Snape could have told him that such a thing would never ever work with Ayda.

"My name is nothing of your business, you meddlesome old fool," Ayda answered sweetly. "The only thing that should interest you is what you can do to keep us from levelling your school to the ground."

Dumbledore spluttered with indignation and opened his mouth to utter something highly unconstructive, probably along the lines of 'Don't you know who I am', or 'How dare you threaten me'.

Then, he closed his mouth again and re-thought the situation. They were hopelessly outnumbered, his mind seemed to tell him, and the castle was empty except for an unconscious young man in the hospital wing. And in a move worthy of any Slytherin, the Headmaster of Hogwarts decided to change tactics.

He lowered his hands. His eyes began to twinkle in the trademarked Dumbledore expression. He smiled.

"Whatever your grievances, madam," He said happily and offered a well known leather bag to the group at large.. "I am sure we can find a more peaceful and civilized way to address them. Lemon drop?"

It was the famous 'Let's-irritate-them-with-kindness'-move that had done good service with more Ministers of Magic than Snape cared to count. Fudge had fallen for it even years after he had gained office.

But Ayda wasn't Fudge.

She twinkled right back.

"Whatever my grievances, Headmaster," She said in a dead-on impression of Dumbledore. "I am sure I can address them best by pinning you to the outer wall of your castle and skinning you alive. Knife?" She asked in the exact same tone Dumbledore had used and opened her cloak to reveal lines and lines of glittering weapons.

Snape couldn't help himself. He snorted loudly.

"Now see here," Entrance of Minerva, her Scottish accent strengthened by anger. "There is no reason to threaten any of us or act like an aggressive force!"

"Oh, but there is," Ayda disagreed, still twinkling happily. It gave Snape the creeps, really. "After all we want to invade Hogwarts, don't we?"

She smiled sweetly as Minerva choked on her confused irritation.

"Why should you want to do that?" She asked, her voice shrill and her wand finally drawn.

"Because you threatened someone who belongs to us," Ayda answered, and then her sharp eyes flickered over to Snape for less than a second. "Two someones, in fact. We don't like that."

"You mean Harry and Snape?" Tonks, her stupidity displayed clearly in the lines of her dropped jaw.

"Whatever you believe, madam," Dumbledore intervened, his tone now the icy command of the general since the doddering old fool hadn't worked. "You have no authority over their fate, since they are both in my care."

His eyes, too, flickered over to Snape, telling him clearly what he would turn this care into as soon as possible.

"And what should prove _your_ authority over them?" Ayda asked back, her grin glittering like a knife in the descending darkness. Obviously, she enjoyed this all tremendously. "Your fashion sense?"

"But you can't invade Hogwarts!" McGonagall protested, spluttering at the impossibility of it. "It's just not done! How can you…"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, my dear," Ayda interrupted. "And… oh… look – I've already done it!"

She grinned, then turned towards Shadow who had watched her antics without the slightest impression in his face.

"Ready then, old bat?" She asked. "You can do the honours. I'm tired of this bunch of idiots already."

"Do not call me old bat," Shadow said, very quietly and very dangerously.

Then, before anyone could react, he _moved_.

Only for the blink of an eye, but when he was back at Ayda's side, he held all their wands in his hand – all their wands except that of Snape, who hadn't even bothered to draw it.

"What the fuck…" Tonks whispered and Snape had to suppress an irritated sigh. Why could they not once have a qualified Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor who would recognize a vampire and his power _before _all was lost?

"Whoever you are," Dumbledore shouted, his anger no longer controlled but slashing wildly though the air around them. "I protest against this treatment! You have no right to be here, nor to take our wands…"

"Be quiet, young man," Ayda interrupted with a finality that silenced even Dumbledore. "You did a rotten job in exercising your authority. It is time for someone competent to take over."

She paused, then nodded towards Shadow and Chairon.

"What a good thing we are here!" She said and suddenly shadows swarmed out from under the trees, encircling them, reaching the castle with superhuman strength and marking the edges of the wards with their presence.

Ayda nodded a second time, and vampires stepped forward, grabbing the teachers' arms and moving them towards the main entrance, druids surrounding them in a large circle.

Hogwarts had been invaded.

For a moment, Snape wondered if he had done the right thing.

He had, after all, spent the last twenty-some years defending this castle against every outside force, and handing it over now to a horde of aggressors seemed a bit much, even considering that he had been provoked.

But then, Shadow and Ayda stepped up to him, Shadow's eyes glowing with a strange mixture of pride and worry.

"Thank you, master Snape," The vampire said, and then asked the question that no one at Hogwarts, Potter's presumed 'home', had bothered with.

"How can we help?"

0o0o0o

And now: Review!


	32. The Day After

A/N:Another much too long wait, I know. I'll try to update more regularly from now on, but updates might continue to come slowly for a while, since I've decided to finish the 'Lioness' as quickly as possible in order to concentrate more on 'Had I Known'. Thank you all for your patience and your wonderful support!

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The Day After

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Potter awoke around midnight, and it took him no more than the white ceiling of the infirmary and the sitting figures of Ayda and Shadow by his side to draw the right conclusions.

"No," He snarled, with more anger than Snape had ever seen him express. "Absolutely not. I forbid it!"

"You do not have the power to forbid me anything, Harry," Shadow said mildly. "We are here to protect you, as we promised we would. Nothing you can say will change that."

Ignoring his friends completely, Potter turned his accusing eyes to Snape.

"You promised me not to!" He said, something like betrayal in his voice. Snape was surprised how much these green eyes could burn.

"I promised you not to take you to Ayda," He agreed. "But I also promised to keep your friends informed. To come here was their own decision, and the right one, I believe. Potter," He added after a moment, driven by the strange wish that the man might understand his reasoning. "The Headmaster wanted to invite the Weasley family to the castle. He has scheduled a press conference for tomorrow. There is no way I could treat you under such circumstances. They would probably take you to St. Mungo's or leave you with Poppy, and I won't lose you to the incompetence of wizarding society!"

Realizing how possessive he sounded, Snape snapped his mouth shut and glared at everybody in reach, daring them to comment on his words. But both Shadow and Ayda seemed preoccupied with watching Potter, and the less than willing patient was busy glaring himself.

"I don't care what happens to me," He finally announced after it became clear that none of his parental figures had the slightest wish to add to Snape's words. "But I won't accept that you get yourself into difficulties. And whatever Shadow may say, Ayda, you I can force to leave. I am your leader. You must obey my commands, and I'm commanding you and all the druids to leave this castle immediately and never return!"

"Down to commanding, are we, Harry?" Ayda asked, her humour so dry it resembled dust. "In that case, you had better not forget that the customary duel is overdue. I could challenge you right here, right now, and believe me, in your current state you would not have a chance in hell to beat me. Which would leave me commander, wouldn't it? And my first order would be to stay in the castle and protect you."

She smiled sweetly, like an old grandmother offering apple pie.

Snape could see the muscles in Potter's jaw tightening.

"Don't do this," He pleaded, suddenly sounding as tired as he must feel. "Don't risk everything you built over the years just for me!"

"Whatever the damage, Harry, it is already done," Shadow replied softly, his dark, tender eyes resting on his young friend's face. "We have decided and acted accordingly, and believe me that we didn't make this decision lightly. Every being in this castle volunteered, and I for one am glad to be at your side again."

"Besides, it's all organized already," Ayda added. "The centaurs are patrolling the grounds, the vampires take the night and the druids the day shift. You wouldn't want us to have planned all this in vain, would you, Potter?"

"I would have wanted you to come to your senses before doing this," Potter answered tensely, but something in his face told Snape that he had accepted the facts in that easy, unfazed way of his, had accepted them and adapted.

"What_have _you done, then?" He asked with a sigh, and Ayda treated him to an elaborate description of the glorious invasion of Hogwarts. Snape noticed with resigned amusement that the druid sounded as gleeful has he felt.

It seemed that Potter couldn't help himself. Despite his loudly stated disagreement with their decisions, his lips twitched more than once in amusement during Ayda's story, and when she imitated McGonagall's indignant '_But you can't invade Hogwarts…It just isn't done'_, quite accurately, actually, he had to suppress a snort.

But his darker thoughts returned soon enough. "And what now?" He asked, his eyes on Snape and Shadow and Ayda, dark with worry and care for them (and how it irritated Snape that he was included in that look). "There's a press conference scheduled for this morning, and you won't be able to control Dumbledore for long! How do you plan to keep all this secret?"

"Leave that to your devious Potions Master," Ayda answered happily. "He's got an evil streak in him."

Snape wondered whether it was right to feel proud about that.

"Professor?" Potter now asked, in a way that showed Snape he had forgiven his former teacher for dragging his friends into danger.

"I believe Ayda will greatly enjoy telling you what I planned. In detail," He said evasively, knowing that the disclosure of his plan would mean another tedious discussion. "The situation in the castle requires my immediate attention."

He saw something akin to suspicion in Potter's eyes, like a child that wondered what the grown ups had decided in his absence, and smirked before once more slipping into the by now well known role of nanny and healer to the Boy Who Lived.

"Sleep," He said. "You will need your strength. We will recommence your treatment in the morning."

Shadow sent him a smile and Ayda a mocking smirk, and then he was on his way, leaving Potter in the care of his friends. There were still many things to do before dawn.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo

"I can't believe you did this, Severus," Minerva repeated for the umpteenth time. "You betrayed us! How could you?"

"How is it that only Gryffindors can use that word in this deeply surprised tone, Minerva?" Snape asked silkily, shamelessly bathing in her outrage. He didn't have to feel guilty that he enjoyed this moment despite the chaos around them – he had earned it, after all.

"SEVERUS!" She howled, too deeply enraged to say more.

He had to fight hard not to grin. There – he had done it: He had rendered Minerva 'Control Queen' McGonagall incoherent. This made him almost forgive Ayda for the knife incident.

"Yes, Minerva?" He asked sweetly.

"You let them invade Hogwarts! Vampires and centaurs and that… horrible old woman!"

"I will have to tell Ayda that you think her worse than vampires," Snape answered, smirking with all his heart. "She will be so pleased!"

"Now really, Severus, this is not the time to joke," Pomona Sprout interjected. The small professor was like a stone in the chaotic ocean that formed the staff of Hogwarts. She alone had made herself comfortable in the staffroom that the teacher had been confined to, and she alone watched him with something else than fury. "I am sure that you would never endanger Hogwarts except for very good reasons. I assume that these reasons have to do with Harry Potter's return. Is that right?"

For a moment, Snape was tempted to ignore this voice of reason and taunt right on. Pomona had always been a spoilsport. But then he had a rather tight schedule to follow, and dawn was approaching rapidly.

"Indeed," He agreed slightly hesitant. "The vampires, centaurs and that horrible old woman are Potter's friends, people he met over the last eight years. He introduced me to them while I was staying with him, and when Dumbledore's behaviour became entirely unreasonable, I saw no other way but to contact them."

"Unreasonable!" Minerva fumed on, and many in the staffroom seemed ready to agree. If Dumbledore had been a figure of light and righteousness during the fight against Voldemort, the last few years had turned him into a saint. One never criticized Dumbledore beyond a few good natured hints about his dottiness. It simply wasn't done.

"Yes, unreasonable," Snape answered, ignoring the way Minerva was gulping down huge amounts of air to ready herself for the next screaming attack. Really, compared to his colleagues the mad druidess and the moody vampire became downright attractive companions!

"From the moment Potter returned to this castle, Dumbledore has been ignoring his explicit wishes. When Potter chose me as his healer – and I assure you that I would prefer that had never happened -, Dumbledore tried everything to control and manipulate Potter through me. When Potter refused to disclose the location of his home, Dumbledore had the audacity to place a tracker on a magical ingredient I was taking with me, knowing that I would never check it out of fear that the spells might compromise the ingredient. This action alone proves that he isn't trustworthy where Potter is concerned. Had I used the unicorn hair the way I intended, Potter might well be dead by now. As things stand, he sent Tonks to follow us, and, as it is bound to happen when Gryffindors take action, Potter was attacked, his home lost and his state of health dangerously affected."

Tonks raised her head and opened her mouth, probably to disagree with his description of the situation, but Snape sent her a single glare and she shut up immediately. Sometimes it was an advantage to have taught Great Britain's dunderheads for more than twenty years – he had ensured that generation after generation was terrified of him and would shut up when he used his classroom face on them.

Pomona's face had lost some of the healthy tan the work outside had given her. As a herbology specialist, she knew well enough what could go wrong when one tampered with magical ingredients.

"He really did that?" She asked quietly, and Snape, immensely enjoying that for once in his life he had the moral upper hand, nodded.

"Indeed," He said again. "After I followed Potter and our resident pea brain," He gestured over to Tonks, who made a barely audible sound of protest in the back of her throat, "Back to Hogwarts, Albus not only released me of my duties towards Potter – _despite_ Potter's earlier decision -, he also scheduled a press conference in which he planned to announce Potter's return to the whole wizarding world. I don't have to tell you what consequences this publicity would have had for Potter's health."

"It would have been a disaster," Pomona whispered, ignoring the reproachful look Minerva sent her way.

Snape nodded again, not bothering to hide his smugness. "Exactly," He said. "I tried to argue with him, but Dumbledore never bothered with the opinion of other's when he had his mind set. So I did the only thing I could."

"The only thing you could?" Minerva repeated bitterly. "I highly doubt that, Severus. After all, you could have tried talking to me, to any of us before you gave Hogwarts up to dark creatures!"

"And you would have stood with me against Dumbledore?" Snape asked, unable to keep the bitterness completely out of his voice. This was Minerva after all, who had, from day one, ignored his opinion and requests on behalf of his Slytherins because she had never quite managed to see beyond house prejudices.

"For the sake of a former student I would have," She answered steadfastly, but the way her eyes were darting through the room told him that not even she fully believed herself.

"Oh, yes," He agreed silkily, not able to withstand the temptation. "He was a Gryffindor, after all. Worthy to be saved."

"Don't be so self righteous, Severus," Minerva was yelling again. Really, it was just too easy. "I am _not _the one who betrayed Hogwarts!"

"Unlike you, Minerva," Snape hissed. "I never bothered with self righteousness. I was a Death Eater, hell and damnation! I can live with my past mistakes. And I know when I erred. But you won't even accept that you didn't fulfil your duty as teacher or Head of House."

"Don't you dare accuse me of failing as a teacher, Severus Snape," Now he had her down to screeching. But he was too angry himself by now to commiserate his poor ears. "I did my duty where Harry was concerned, and more than that! It wasn't my fault that his parents were killed, or that he was the child of the prophecy! No one could have protected him from that!"

"You were his Head of House!" Snape said, so deeply angry by now that his body was cold as ice. Had everyone in this cursed castle been blind where Potter was involved? "You knew what kind of muggles the Dursleys were, you told me so yourself. And yet you never once questioned Potter about his home life, you never once checked on him, even though he was clearly malnourished when he returned from holidays!

"You were a member of the Order, knowing what rested on his shoulders, but did you, even once, offer to talk about his problems? Did you talk to him when Cedric Diggory died? When his fifth year was plagued by visions? When his godfather fell through the veil? Did you even once question the assurances Dumbledore gave you and decided to look for yourself? Or did you trust him blindly with the life of your student?"

"But Albus wanted only the best for Mr Potter! He wouldn't ever have mistreated the boy! He loves him, Severus, more than I thought prudent for a Headmaster."

Snape snorted. "I always said that love was overrated," He said. "Responsibility, however, that can never be taken seriously enough. A bit less love from you and a bit more concentration on your job might have been just the thing Potter would have needed."

"I_was _concentrating on my job!"

"Then why weren't you protecting him all the times that his life was threatened? Where were you when he was forced to spend his summers with those relatives of his?"

McGonagall sighed. "I am the first to admit that Potter's life was rough, Severus, rougher than that of a boy should be. But surely you exaggerate. The situation was less than ideal, yes, but Albus had a limited choice of options, and I do believe he chose the best. He wouldn't harm a child."

Snape glared at her and saw her shifting in her seat.

"I have seen it all, Minerva," He said, very calmly and very coldly. He felt uneasy doing this, but he knew that the alternative, to let the press investigate on its own, was even less acceptable. "I've been in his mind. I've seen the things he never told you about. He lived in a cupboard, Minerva. They broke his wrist when he was five. When he was six, they nearly killed him in an effort to beat the 'freakishness' out of him. When he was ten, he had more scars and injuries than most war veterans do. When Hagrid came for him, he had learned not to question his lot in life. When he was eleven and battled Quirell, he had learned that no one would ever come for him, that he would have to stand up for himself. He learned this, and acted according to it, although Albus Dumbledore was waiting in the shadows for things to run their course. When he was twelve, he nearly died. He was poisoned and fought to an inch of his life, and no one bothered caring for him. And I will not even start speaking of the emotional traumas Diggory's and Black's death left him with, or what the rebirth of the Dark Lord did to him."

He took a deep breath and saw that Minerva's face had turned very pale, that Tonks' wide eyes were staring at him in horror.

"When he had killed Voldemort, he wanted to die. He tried to kill himself over and over again because he believed his use had ended, because someone in this castle had convinced him that his only reason to go on living was killing the monster we – not he – had created. And now, eight years after he has vanished, he returns a grown and mature man, and the first thing Albus does is taking every shred of dignity and self control from him, as if he was the eleven year old Boy Who Lived all over again. Now, if you please, tell me in how far I exaggerated."

"You are lying," She whispered, but it was a desperate denial in the face of the truth.

"What reason could I have, Minerva," He answered mildly. "I have always hated Potter, and I resented that I was forced to treat him. Tell me, why should I not be relieved now that the Headmaster is going to take over his treatment?"

"But he can't have…"

"Potter is alive _despite _the Headmaster, not because of him. And this time around, Dumbledore is not only risking the life of a student in his care, he is gambling with the fate of our entire world."

A long silence followed, one that Snape didn't dare break. Despite his taunting, despite his open opposition he _needed_ these people for his plan to run smoothly. He had no wish to see the castle in a continued state of war, no matter how much Ayda would enjoy harassing the wizards.

"I agree," Pomona Sprout finally said, her voice solemn and her face grave. "If Albus did indeed do these things, and I trust Severus to tell us the truth, it is our duty to stand with Mr Potter. Even against the Headmaster."

One after another, the teachers nodded. Only Argus Filch, leaning against the wall in a silent show of outrage, didn't look convinced. But then there wasn't much a squib could do against the invasion of Hogwarts.

Minerva watched them, silently, before turning towards Snape and meeting his gaze with a strange glitter in her eyes.

„I hadn't realized you cared so much about Harry, Severus," she slowly said.

"This isn't about care," Snape sneered, frustrated that she still wouldn't understand and slightly worried that he would have to put up with sentimental interpretations of his behaviour from now on, "This is about duty, Minerva. We've wronged him in the past, more than once, and the least we can do now is to make sure that we act according to his will, not to Dumbledore's."

"And because of that duty you betrayed Hogwarts?"

"As far as I am concerned," Snape answered coldly. "Dumbledore betrayed this castle and all that it supposedly stands for when he destroyed the life of a student in his care, over and over again. I don't think that is what the Headmaster of a school should do. Do you?"

She didn't react to this – not that he had expected her to -, but after a moment she too nodded, and, joining the other teachers so that she could stand between Tonks and Pomona, asked: "What do you want us to do?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"I still can't believe that you got Tonks to impersonate Dumbledore," Potter said quietly, his eyes on the dancing flames in Snape's fireplace.

They had moved to his chambers after Potter's discomfort at staying in the infirmary – and being visited by druids, centaurs, vampires and staff every other minute - had become just too obvious to be ignored.

Snape wasn't sure how he felt about Potter sitting on his sofa, watching his fireplace and drinking tea from one of his cups, but he certainly wasn't as enraged as he would have been a week ago, or three days.

"It was memorable," Snape agreed, "Especially the part when she nearly fell off the podium and blamed it on the 'feebleness of approaching old age'."

Tonks had been stunned when he had explained his plan, wearing that facial expression of surprised stupidity that seemed to be her main characteristic these days, and Minerva had refused outright, yelling that they would not impersonate Dumbledore and orchestrate his approaching retirement.

Snape had countered with a detailed description of what the contaminated unicorn hair would have done to Potter had he digested it. Detailed. With all the blood and gore and the consequent return of Voldemort in the flesh. It had been a triumph of vivid vocabulary, subtle threads and close knowledge of what pain the human body could go through.

Minerva had paled at the description and had been rather subdued afterwards. Tonks had agreed without problem.

_And that's the way the human mind has worked for millennia_, Snape had thought, darkly amused. _Tell them a scary story and they will do what you want. _

And do what he wanted they had. Tonks had managed a spot on performance of Dumbledore, twinkling eyes, lemon drops and barminess nicely combined to the best effect. It had, to be honest, rather restored Snape's belief in her mental capacities – or had it destroyed his last belief in Dumbledore's? It really shouldn't have been so easy to imitate a centuries old genius, should it?

Then Tonks had delivered the little speech Snape had prepared, in which there was a great deal of Gryffindor-sentimentality and Dumbledore-madness and a little bit of common sense that would hopefully slip by unnoticed (this was, he had learned during many painful years, the only way to teach most dunderheads: a lot of drama to divert attention from the actual facts sneaking in through the back door). Tonks' Dumbledore had declared that after his many years of teaching he had begun to feel his old age and wanted to use this press conference to move some of the burden from his frail to younger, most competent shoulders. Minerva's, that is.

And Minerva had stepped forward, with a last glare towards Snape, and had most gracefully accepted her new duties of assistant-Headmistress, before wishing the journalists a curt goodbye and ushering them out of the castle with her usual crisp efficiency.

And all the while Snape had stood in the background of the scene, trying hard not to gloat and even harder not to smirk broadly at the thought of Dumbledore, who was hidden away in a third floor classroom with Ayda and Chairon as company.

That happened when you tried to cross a Slytherin, old man!

Some of that smugness must have shown on his face, for Potter chuckled softly and nodded as if in agreement.

Potter had protested what they had done at first, in contrast to Ayda, who had grinned gleefully and asked if she could prepare a list of things she had always wanted to hear Dumbledore announce.

But Snape had told him to mind his own business, and Ayda had told him not to spoil his Potions Professor's fun, and Shadow had informed him that the alternatives consisted of _Imperioes_ or _Obliviates_ or worse violations of the Headmaster's free will, and Potter had given in.

For a moment, Snape had been tremendously glad that they had invaded Hogwarts. Potter was so much easier to handle with his mad druid and his bipolar vampire near.

Then, Ayda had turned to Snape and told him that he was an 'evil, evil person'. It had sounded like a compliment.

And now the press was satisfied, and Dumbledore taken care of, and the staff had – for the most part – accepted the presence of their minders.

Which left Snape and Potter free to return to their main priority. The treatment of Potter's illness. In Snape's quarters.

But Potter, instead of concentrating on what they had to do, was stalling. He had begun by heaping an outrageous amount of compliments on Snape's living arrangements. Then he had requested tea. Then he had asked Snape how the staff were treating him and how he felt about it – by this time Snape had seen through his façade and started sneering. Not even someone decidedly less intelligent than Potter would have asked Snape about his feelings and seriously expected an answer.

After the discussion of the press conference there would only be left the weather, and Snape would be damned if he talked about that. Snape sighed. They did not have time for this.

"What's the matter, Potter?" He asked, his tone several degrees softer than the usual taunting sneer. "Afraid of the past?"

Without a moment of hesitation or insecurity, Potter nodded.

"Yes," He answered quietly, and his simple honesty once more disarmed Snape totally.

Snape didn't know what to say. He wasn't used to adults admitting that they were afraid. Fear had always been a weakness to him, something one mustn't ever confess. Just another difference between him and Potter, who even seemed relieved by his wors.

"I don't want to see this," Potter suddenly confessed. "It's a haze in my mind, a red haze of anger and hate and sorrow. I don't want to go through it again."

Snape wanted to scoff at that and say something derogatory, but then he remembered how painful some these memories had been even for himself, whose life had not been ripped apart like that.

"I understand," He said, and it was nothing but the truth.

Potter nodded again, and, meeting his eyes, smiled softly. For a moment they sat in silence, like brothers of arms preparing for a fight, then Potter straightened, rose from his seat by the fireplace and stroked his hair back in an unconscious gesture.

"Let's go," He then said. "The past is waiting."


	33. The Last of the Marauders

A/N: Back again after a long absence. I hope you like the chapter! Lots of Snape – Harry interaction in this one. 

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The Last of the Marauders 

The corridor that became visible when the mists cleared looked muggle in every respect, wallpaper and carpet in matching pastel tones and tasteless photos of a huge, whale-like being hanging on the walls.

So they were at the Dursleys again.

"I thought that nothing bad ever happened to you here after you got your Hogwarts letter," Snape commented quietly, not sure whether to be relieved or worried. Being forced to watch child abuse had been an ugly experience, but in comparison to what the Dark Lord (and Dumbledore) had done to Potter on a regular basis, it had been almost normal.

"This has nothing to do with the Dursleys," Potter answered just as quietly, his eyes tired as he looked up and down the corridor. "The memory just starts here. Perhaps we should go in."

Snape followed his eyes towards a door to the left and snorted with disgust. Heavy locks that looked ridiculous on the white, probably paper thin door, and a cat flap.

"I should have guessed that this would be your door," He said, remembering what Potter had told him in one of the past memories.

"Yes," Potter answered quietly without a hint of his usual humour, "Perhaps you should."

Another sign of uneasiness. Snape had half a mind to turn around and demand an explanation, a detailed description of the memory to follow perhaps, from Potter, but then they heard steps ascending the stairs, and Potter simply walked forward and through the closed door, without another word.

The Potter inside the room looked awful. His eyes bloodshot, his hair unkempt and probably unwashed, his too large clothes wrinkled and less than fresh. His room looked like the only – but badly injured – survivor of a blasting bomb.

Black's death, Snape realized, was still fresh in this timeline, although so much had happened in Snape's own reality that he barely remembered the memories of Potter's fight in the ministry and the ensuing disclosure of the prophecy.

He could still see traces of the terrible guilt and pain in Potter-the-teenager's eyes, along with a weariness no boy that age should have felt. He looked haunted, and Snape wasn't sure what might be weighing heavier on his mind – the knowledge that he had caused the death of his godfather, or the knowledge that he would soon be forced to cause another death if he wanted his world to survive.

Before he could ask the Potter at his side, however, the locks on the other side of the door rattled and sprung open. A moment later, Remus Lupin stretched his head through the door with that gentle, understanding expression on his face that had always driven Snape to distraction.

"Harry," He said softly, and the memory Potter on the bed jumped as if he had been slapped.

"Remus," He cried out, and he didn't look too thrilled to see his father's only surviving friend, "What are you doing here?"

Lupin smiled, opened the door a bit wider and stepped fully into the chaos an optimistic person might have called room. Against his will, Snape was impressed by how Lupin managed to ignore the state of his surroundings and his unofficial godson. But that was Lupin. Always discrete, always taking care of his friends. Looking the other way when they decided to have some fun with ugly Slytherins.

But to his dismay, Snape found that the long known tirade of hate was interrupted by another voice, whispering to him from the back of his mind.

_It must have been hard, growing up as a werewolf_, the voice said, _and being isolated from everything normal. What would _you _have done to have friends when you came to Hogwarts? What _have_ you done?_

Good Lord, he was beginning to sound like Potter, Snape realized with horror and banished the voice to the darkest edge of his mind. Better to concentrate on the memory before he let some mushy nonsense like that slip!

"Come to visit you, Harry. I wanted to take you for a walk," The werewolf answered in that soft, understanding tone Snape had always hated. As if Lupin's every word was designed to counteract the madness of the wolf, as if he was always taming himself and everyone around him.

_Good job he did with the mutt_, Snape thought, relieved to notice that his voices were back to their usual vindictiveness.

"A walk," The memory-Harry answered now, and there were thoughts playing on his face Snape couldn't clearly read, "But isn't that too dangerous?"

Lupin shook his head. "I had a close look at the area before I came here. There's no reason to worry, Harry."

Snape doubted very much that Lupin was qualified to search a room for traps, let alone a muggle street. He looked at the grown Potter by his side, and the silent sorrow in his eyes confirmed his doubts. Whatever was going to happen when Lupin and Potter left the house, it wouldn't be good at all.

Potter-the-boy too seemed uneasy with the thought.

"But Dumbledore told me not to leave the house under any circumstances," He said, his wishes and insecurities colliding in his eyes very obviously.

"He didn't say _that,_" Remus disagreed. "What he didn't want was for you to leave the house _alone_, Harry."

For a moment, Potter looked as if he wanted to argue the point and Snape felt slightly surprised. So Potter _had _learned one of his lessons after all. A pity that it hadn't been the one about never trusting another's opinions.

"It'd be good to get outside," He finally conceded and Lupin smiled in encouragement. "Let me just use the bathroom."

Barely was he gone from the room when Lupin whipped out his wand, starting to clean the place with a proficiency that surprised Snape. But then the werewolf had never been rich enough to possess a house elf or buy ready household charms, and he _had _shared a dorm with Black and Potter, who had always practically screamed carelessness in all matters of tidiness and decorum.

When Potter-the-boy returned to the room, it was a far cry from the dirty den Lupin had entered. Potter took in the changes, blushed violently and remained silent.

"Let's go then," Lupin said, once more smiling softly and understandingly. "Do you have a place in mind?"

Potter hesitated, obviously not having a clue what to propose but just as obviously not willing to admit it to Remus. After Snape had seen snatches of his home life, he wasn't surprised. Potter had probably seldom left the house before his time at Hogwarts. And he had always been rather careful to let no one know about the reasons for that.

"We could go to the playground," He then suggested helplessly, "There's seldom anybody there these days."

For a moment Lupin frowned, looking as if he wanted to argue about Potter's choice of destination, but then he seemed to decide that whatever Potter wanted was right.

Snape had to suppress an annoyed sigh. This blind acceptance of Potter's every quirk and eccentricity had caused more problems over the years than any other stupid mistake the Order had made. If only one of those softhearted Gryffindors had stopped to consider the reasons for Potter's rule breaking, for his tendency to shut himself off and rush headlong into harebrained risks, then they would have…

_If you had only once thought what the images you saw during Occlumency had meant_… That irritating little voice whispered again, and Snape opted for a careful study of the Dursleys' carpet.

They kept their silence as they followed the werewolf and the memory-Potter out of the house, through the deserted streets to a small fenced-off area that looked more like a bomb-testing area than a playground.

"Dudley and his gang used to vandalize this place," Potter-the-man explained quietly when he saw Snape's scandalized looks, "It's pathetic, really, when you think about it. Spending your evenings smashing carousels and thinking you're evil because of it. They didn't really impress me anymore after I had seen Voldemort come back."

He shrugged and headed towards the swings, the only available seat Snape could make out in the approaching dusk. He would stand then, he decided immediately. No force on earth could make him sit on a swing. Even the thought of it made him shudder.

But Potter had no such qualms, and from the look on his face as he lowered himself on the pockmarked plastic, he felt relief at being off his feet. Another sign for his growing exhaustion, and Snape noticed it with worry.

He returned his attention to the memory they were supposed to be watching. Potter and Lupin, standing in the middle of a deserted, wrecked playground, looking, Snape thought, quite foolish. Potter was staring at his feet, shuffling them in a most undignified manner, and Lupin was observing the state of the playground with bewilderment in his eyes.

_Try to make a nice comment about that, werewolf,_ Snape thought with glee. He didn't fail to notice that the memory-Potter had obviously no intention of telling Lupin _why_ their surroundings looked like a bomb crater.

Refusing to show any further interest in the inane chatter of Gryffindors, Snape stepped away from Lupin and Potter, opting instead for a survey of his surroundings.

It really was a desolate place, the very opposite of a stimulating or nourishing environment, and Snape wondered how Potter had retained enough imagination to wrap his small brain around a concept like magic.

But before he could formulate a sufficiently scathing inquiry about the matter, the changed topic of the memory-figures' discussion rekindled his interest and he moved closer to them – inconspicuously, he hoped. He really didn't want Potter to think that he was listening in on his conversations.

"You mean that Dumbledore told _everybody_ about the prophecy?" Potter-the-boy had just asked in shock and growing outrage.

"Not everyone," Remus corrected him softly. "Only the Order and your two best friends. Surely they have the right to know, don't they? You would have told them yourself anyway, wouldn't you?"

Potter hesitated, then nodded, but Snape could clearly make out that this was everything but his honest answer. No, Potter had had no interest at all in his friends knowing the prophecy.

Two weeks ago, Snape would have been surprised about that. By now he knew just how much Potter had never bothered to tell his friends, and he had to suppress a nod of approval.

"It's just that I wasn't ready for it yet, I guess," He answered slowly. "I only wanted…"

What exactly Potter-the-memory wanted neither Lupin nor Snape would ever find out. Before he could finish his sentence the sharp cracks of apparitions filled the playground.

Lupin drew his wand, but already curses were sizzling through the air like lethal fireworks, and there were too many of them to leave any hope. Lupin and Potter were surrounded.

Suddenly, the memory Potter cried out in pain and dropped to his knees. Snape rushed closer, expecting the tell tale signs of the Fading, but all he saw was a rip in Potter's too large sweater, reddening rapidly with blood.

"A whipping curse," His Potter informed him curtly. Snape nodded and stepped back. He could see the growing despair in Lupin's eyes, the cruel knowledge that he had put Potter in danger, had once again failed his dead friends, and it made Snape uneasy. He hadn't liked the werewolf when he was alive. He refused to feel sympathy for him now that he was dead.

The Death Eaters were closing in on them, and it was only a matter of time until a lethal curse would find its way through Lupin's weakening shield charm. The situation was hopeless, and Snape could see that the werewolf knew it as well as he did.

And so he did the only thing he could. In a move that Snape would remember for the rest of his life, that would make him respect Lupin and erase much of the bitterness he had felt towards the werewolf, Lupin _threw_ himself towards Potter, not caring for the curses that broke through his shield and caused him to stumble.

But Potter was too far away, and there were just too many of them.

"Harry," Lupin cried out over the sounds of curses and the shouts of his attackers. "I'm sorry!"

He withdrew a talisman of some sort from his pocket and threw it towards Potter, who caught it reflexively.

"Portus," Lupin yelled, and Snape only snatched a glimpse of his bloodied face before Potter, and then everything else, faded from view.

They were at Grimmauld Place. In the kitchen of all places.

As the memory-Potter fell to his knees, sobbing, dry-heaving and calling out for Lupin in a most melodramatic manner, the Potter of the presence calmly walked over to one of the more comfortable chairs and settled himself.

"This evening is going to be long, Professor," He remarked while his past self yelled for help and cried and cried, while Order members rushed through the room, shaking and touching Potter and creating a pandemonium of undisciplined worry.

Snape nodded and, without saying a word, chose a chair opposite from Potter. He didn't feel like talking right now.

When the initial chaos had finally subsided, Snape found to his irritation that the Order, rushing off Merlin knew where, had left Potter, shell shocked and injured Potter, completely on his own.

_It really is a miracle that we survived until he killed the Dark Lord_, Snape thought_. And that second one begins to look like the smaller miracle in comparison._

Potter-the-boy was as silent as his grown up counterpart while they all recovered from the noise and confusion.

After a long, long moment during which he had just kneeled on the cold kitchen floor, looking dazed and out of it with pain and horror, Potter slowly forced himself upright again. His wand, dirty and bloodied and still gripped in a fist white with tension, was aimed at his back in a half hearted attempt of a healing spell, then Potter collapsed on a chair, still staring into the distance as if he could see something hidden from their eyes. Perhaps it was the face of Lupin, filled with the knowledge of death and a terrible guilt.

Potter's hands were twitching in a way that told Snape the adrenaline was slowly wearing off. The grip on his wand slackened and the wood dropped to the floor with an echoing, desolate sound.

Potter didn't notice. His breathing turned into dry sobs, but still his eyes were dry and glazed, just as they had been the entire time.

"I kill everyone I love," He whispered.

Then there was only silence.

The light from the window weakened until only the flames dancing in the fireplace lightened the room. Snape judged that about an hour passed while they were sitting beside the silently grieving Potter, waiting for the memory to finish.

Potter-the-boy didn't move. He had to be in considerable pain by now and the healing spell he had used had been anything but sufficient. But he didn't move. He sat on the bench, hunched up, and only a slight tremble now and then showed that he wasn't a statue.

It seemed that all life had gone out of him.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Snape, the fire flared again, and out stepped… Snape.

And suddenly, in a flash of memory, Snape remembered this evening, this scene, remembered what he had said and done, and he stiffened, knowing rather than feeling that his face went white with shame and shock.

"Potter," The memory-Snape said in a terribly cold voice. It was not a greeting.

"Professor," Potter answered, his voice unsure and brittle. "Do you know… Is Remus…"

"Lupin lies dead at the Dark Lord's feet," He answered shortly and Snape could see the memory-Potter shrink before his eyes, cowering in on himself, as if reducing his body surface could lessen the pain of these words.

"With everyone else, I would be asking what they were thinking, acting against Dumbledore's explicit orders, risking your life barely three weeks after your carelessness got Black killed," Snape-the-memory said, disdain dropping from every word like acid. "With you, it seems unnecessary to ask."

"I…I didn't mean to," Potter whispered, his face ashen, but Snape didn't seem inclined to let him speak.

"You never _mean_ to," He hissed mockingly. "But that doesn't change the fact that you have a record of getting Order members killed that is challenged only by Bellatrix Lestrange. I would be asking if you worked for the Dark Lord secretly, if I weren't quite sure that he'd never accept anyone as incompetent as you. Even Wormtail is a wonder of wit and talent in comparison."

"I… am sorry," Potter whispered, too crushed even to react with his usual anger.

"You are _sorry_," The memory-Snape echoed again in that mocking tone, "Should we inscribe that on Lupin's gravestone, Potter? 'Was killed by idiocy – very sorry about it?"

Snape remembered that he had thought this rather witty back then, his scorn a welcome outlet for the shock he had received when he had apparated to the Dark Lord's feet, only to set eyes on the brutally mangled corpse of Remus Lupin.

But it wasn't witty now. It was cruel, and unrefined, and certainly not worthy of the Head of Slytherin.

With a last effort, one Snape hadn't believed the younger Potter hadn't possessed, he turned his back to his Potions Professor's vicious hate. He kept his back calm, perfectly straight, and the memory Snape's face darkened further with the impertinence of this, but the real Snape could see, from his position at the kitchen table, why Potter had done it.

His face crumbled.

"I…" He whispered, his voice cloyed and so full of tears that Snape couldn't believe he had noticed nothing back then. But perhaps he had noticed, he thought with a sickening feeling in his stomach, and simply hadn't cared.

"I… He didn't suffer much, did he?"

"That depends on your view of the Cruciatus, Potter," The memory-Snape snarled, "I believe you would have shown more mercy if you had plunged a silver dagger into his heart."

Potter gave a sound that Snape remembered, a half choked noise he had interpreted as defiance in the past, something that had driven him to the brink of anger. From his point of view in this memory, he could see the tear streaked face of Potter, choking on his own grief and guilt.

"Really Potter," His younger self hissed now. "Even with the prophecy I find it hard to believe that you have any use at all. Go to your room now. I have better things to do than comfort the _Chosen One."_

For a moment, Potter raised his head as if he wanted to argue, as if in spite of everything that had happened to him he still had any strength left. But then he just nodded, accepting Snape's judgement, and left the kitchen in silence, his shoulders hunched in a way that had nothing to do with adolescent stubbornness and everything to do with a world that had just become a tiny bit too heavy to bear.

And with him vanished the memory, leaving a tired looking Potter and a horrified Snape in the middle of his living room.

"I tore you apart," Snape said, shocked at how brittle his own voice sounded, how old and weak. He had spent more than six years of his life belittling and ridiculing Potter, but somehow he had never expected to be part of his worst memories.

He had never grouped himself with the aggressors in this little game, had never considered, while he vented his anger against the Dursleys, the Headmaster or Voldemort, that he had been part of it all. Had been in the thick of it.

Had despised the boy for reasons that seemed ridiculous to him now, but that had seemed important enough back then to kick someone already curled on the ground in a shaking heap. Someone that was destined to save his world.

What _had _he been thinking.

"Yes," Potter acknowledged without a moment's hesitation and settled down on the couch as if the world hadn't turned upside down just now. "That was the first time in my life I thought about killing myself."

Snape closed his eyes against the truth, but it persisted, a glaring light penetrating his lids, like the sun in all its merciless brightness.

"Why then," He said. It wasn't even a question. He didn't have the strength to raise his voice in inquiry.

"Why what?" Potter asked mildly, supporting himself on his elbows until he lay half upright and looking up to him expectantly.

"Why choose me to supervise your treatment," Snape answered, his eyes wanting to close again, but he refused to let them. "Why show me all these memories, all these weaknesses. Why treat me with continual respect and introduce me to your friends. Was this some harebrained scheme of redemption of yours, or just a good laugh?"

Potter sighed, like a parent who had expected his child to ask a difficult question for some time now but found himself taxed by it nonetheless, and lay back down on the sofa, face and posture relaxed.

Snape felt so stiff and brittle that he thought he would break into a thousand pieces at every touch.

"You remember our training, don't you, Professor?" He asked, and the memory of Potter-the-boy, half bent over Snape's pensieve, flashed before Snape's eyes.

"In sixth year," Potter added, as if the same memory had fallen on him. "You taught me offensive magic, Occlumency, everything that might help me survive a bit longer."

"Yes," Snape answered tonelessly, remembering all too many incidences of this 'training'. Verbal slaughtering was probably a more apt description for it.

"And one afternoon I was wrestling with some spell I can't remember, I was trying really hard but couldn't concentrate, and you lost patience with me. You disarmed me, grabbed my wand, and one moment I was afraid you would snap it. I wouldn't have put it beyond you at that time."

Potter paused to gather his thoughts. "And that was when it happened. When you told me that being the protagonist of a bloody prophecy wouldn't help me one bit. That for you I wasn't the saviour of the wizarding world or anything special at all, that I was just a lousy student unable to concentrate and rotten at duelling. That I would get people killed again and again until I took what I did seriously. You told me that I was nothing but a scrawny sixteen-year-old with less than average grades. And that that wasn't enough to win this war, that it wasn't enough to believe in destiny and hope for the best either. That the only way to atone for all the incredibly stupid mistakes I had made was to work my arse off to get better and to survive until I had killed Voldemort, not that you believed that would ever happen."

Potter paused again, but this time expectantly, and Snape wanted to snarl at him and rush from the room.

"So I delivered a memorable string of insults," He commented curtly. "I don't know how this relates to my question except making it more valid."

Abruptly, Potter sat up and stared at him in surprise.

"But don't you see?" He whispered, as if his point was the most obvious thing in the world. "Don't you see what you did? You had probably done it a thousand times before, but that afternoon, I noticed it for the first time and it changed everything! You told me what you thought! What you saw! For the first time in I can't remember how long a time, an adult told me the simple truth!"

Potter chuckled softly. For the first time in days, Snape wanted to hit him.

"And I _was _a scrawny, good for nothing teenager that was frightened beyond his wits, and I _had _gotten people killed because I didn't think my actions through. I had gotten so used to somehow surviving everything Voldemort threw at me that I had given up trying to protect myself, I _had _started to believe that it was somehow my destiny to kill him, and kill him I would, although I had no idea how.

"At that point in my life, I had lost myself entirely. But _you_ saw me, and you told me what you saw. You told me the truth, and you handed me a way of taking at least part of the control over my life back, by training, by ignoring the prophecy and concentrating on my work instead."

Potter stopped, and nodded slowly, as if confirming his point.

"I didn't understand it completely at the time," He then said quietly. "But, paradoxically, in your hate of me, you were the only friend I had left in that castle. You were the only one that saw me enough to help me survive. You gave me counsel in the deepest darkness I had ever experienced, when all the Headmaster would do was pat my head and offer me a lemon drop. When I was in Voldemort's torture chamber, hanging at a thread of my life, lemon drops somehow didn't matter much. But the idea of atonement, that I could pay for all my mistakes, redeem myself by just surviving a bit longer, that got me through the Crucioes. It got me to the point where I could kill him."

Potter shrugged, a bit embarrassed by the length of the speech.

"So, you see," He continued. "In a very tangible way, it wasn't me who saved the wizarding world. It was you."

Snape stared at him, his brain as frozen as his face. Then, he whirled around and left the room, his black robes billowing behind him.

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Review!


	34. A Spoonful of Sugar

A/N: Many apologies for the unbelievably long delay – if you want explanations, please go to my livejournal (Homepage-link on my profile page). I solemnly swear that updates will come much quicker after this one. However, my other fanfic is nearly finished now and will thus have priority till the last chapter's up. After that, I promise I will concentrate as much as I can on this one!

Thank you all for your reviews and thoughts and for not giving up on me. I know this chapter is of a rather transitory nature and might disappoint after the long wait. But there are necessary developments in it, and I promise the next chapter will begin with a bang!

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**A Spoonful of Sugar**

Walking the corridors of Hogwarts had become an extremely stressful experience as of late. Not because of the many centaurs, druids, or – at night time – vampires that might possibly be waiting behind every corner, and not because of the teachers who, although they had officially forgiven his betrayal, were treating him with even more mistrust than usual.

No, it was because never in all his time at Hogwarts had there been so many people who seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

It was scary, really.

There were Ayda, Chairon and the centaur that had led them to the secret garden, and of course the vampires he had met during that first surreal night in the tavern. He had expected them to recognize and greet him, perhaps smile (although he hadn't quite learned to deal with that part from the vampires, yet). But there were other people, people he had never seen in his life, stepping up to him and thanking him for what he had done.

Thanking him because he was taking care of 'their Harry'. So that was what a life as spy for the light and exceptionally brilliant Potions Master led to? Being recognized because he played the nurse for Potter?

And most disgusting about it all, as he had yet to admit to himself, was the fact that he felt a twinge of guilty delight every time he heard himself praised in this way. He had even stooped low enough to make sure one of the druids told him so in front of the staff, especially Minerva.

Her expression of outright bafflement had been beautiful to see. It had even been worth the hug said druid, a woman that reminded him of Molly Weasley without the hysterics, had subjected him to. Barely.

But now, Snape only wanted to get away from all these voices, from the hands trying to touch him and the gratefulness he didn't deserve. His face hurt, and only when he raised his hands to it did he realize that his jaws were strongly clenched together.

To his own shock, he found that he didn't want a quiet corner with an armchair and a fireplace or a large bottle of whisky. He wanted Ayda.

And this confirms it. I am lost forever to the ranks of Cynical Intellectuals for World Peace. I should resign membership and join the Merry Group of Soppy Idiots instead.

But intellectual disgust or not, his treacherous feet moved him steadily through Hogwarts, in search for a woman he'd never thought he would search for.

He found her in the Headmaster's office. Of course.

It wasn't surprising that she was nosing her way through the Headmaster's belongings – she had never shown any regard for such concepts as politeness, privacy or ownership -, but what shocked even him a little was the shamelessness of it.

Probably a reaction to having spied for so many years, he mused, but the picture of the old woman, sitting comfortably in the Headmaster's chair, boots propped on his desk, rifling through what Snape _knew_ where his diaries, a broad grin on her face, made him feel rather itchy.

Fortunately, years of spying had also taught him the necessity of ignoring such feelings when more important things called.

"Potter is driving me mad," He announced without greeting, knowing that Ayda paid as little attention to courtesy as he did, and fell into a chair opposite to hers.

"That's hardly news, is it," She commented absently while perusing something that looked suspiciously like a love letter. "What this old man spend his time with on the other hand, now _that _makes for fascinating reading. If I published this, I would never have to worry about money again – QUIET, YOU PIECE OF MOULD, OR I'LL USE YOU AS KINDLING!"

The last, Snape was glad to notice, was directed at one of the portraits, who regarded the new mistress of the office with a slightly shell-shocked expression. One had retreated to the very edge of his painting. Snape could have sworn he heard it whimper.

Snape considered protesting against this invasion of Albus Dumbledore's private thoughts, then gave up thinking about it. The objection had to appear rather bigoted, coming from the man who had had Hogwarts invaded.

"No," He returned to the original topic instead. "I must say that he has reached an entirely new level tonight."

Shrewd eyes rose from the old leather tome and fixed him like a needle a butterfly.

"Which memory?" She asked curtly.

"Lupin," He answered just as curtly, knowing that long explanations were wasted on Ayda, anyway. Her attention span was too short.

"Ah. So you finally caught up with your own role in this little tragicomedy," Ayda commented mildly. "Saw something you didn't like?"

Suddenly, Snape wondered why he had come. He had followed the age old wish of being with another human being, a wish he had believed extinct in himself long ago. Now, he was angry with himself. Knowing that Ayda knew didn't make him feel better. It made everything worse.

"Let us head down to dinner," He grumbled, stood, and caught an answering glimmer in Ayda's eyes. Not the warm, friendly twinkle Dumbledore would give anyone and everyone. Ayda's eyes were dark, wry, and without a hint of pity.

_Since when do I want pity? Especially from an old woman whose sheer presence could sour milk? _Snape raged against himself while they rode down the winding staircase.

But he couldn't forget memory-Potter's tear streaked face as a younger Severus Snape tore into him, and he shuddered.

"He told me about you, do you know that?" Ayda asked in a light conversational tone. "In fact, it was one of the first personal talks we had, back when he was still a whining, suicidal teenager."

"Did he," Snape growled, making sure that his words could in no way be misconstrued as a question. He did not _want _to talk to her. He wanted to go to his rooms and sulk. Only that Potter was there, waiting for him with that bloody understanding plastered all over his face.

Damn it.

"Yes," Ayda answered, ignoring his needs as usual. "After I dragged him out of one of his moods. By both ears."

Snape had no problem at all to picture that event. It made the dark cloud over his head lift a little.

"He stood in front of me, all indignant, "Ayda grinned. "And told me that I was 'just like Professor Snape'." The squeaky imitation of an adolescent voice made Snape's lips twitch.

Ayda paused, waiting for the smirk on Snape's lips to broaden.

"Of course," She then continued just as lightly. "It took me years to understand that it was meant as a compliment."

Gone was the smirk. And the lightening of his mood. Damn the woman.

"He told me you had known his parents, and that you had taught him much of what he knew," She grinned. "Especially how to fight dirty."

"Did he also tell you that I hated his guts and went out of my way to make his life miserable?" Snape demanded harshly.

"Yes. As worthy an educational basis as I have ever known."

Snape could have sworn he heard the fine, singing noise of one nerve after the other pulling tight.

"I do not want your judgment," He ground out, only to nearly run into the woman as she stopped and turned towards him.

"Oh, but you do," She disagreed, grinning. "You want to be judged and found unworthy. You want to be considered evil. It's what you are used to, what you can deal with. The fact that someone could decide to forgive you however scares you out of your pants."

Her eyes gave him a slow, measured sweep. Her grin widened.

"Ever wondered how you got that messed up?" She asked, turned around and resumed her walk to the Great Hall.

Snape wanted to shout. He wanted to storm after her, grab her and slam her against the next wall. He wanted to revisit his extensive knowledge of pain curses, or perhaps reach for one of the vials hidden in his robes.

Instead, he did the unthinkable. He stood in the middle of the corridor, mouth slightly open, jaw hanging most uncomplimentary. Speechless. Then he closed his mouth, took a deep, slightly wheezing breath, and followed her down the stairs.

"I hate you," He remarked curtly when he caught up with her.

"Always glad to serve," She replied just as curtly.

Snape entered the Great Hall wondering why the hell he felt better because of the stupid, uncaring, irritating remark of an old madwoman.

That was when Albus Dumbledore stepped in his way. Great. At least the day couldn't get any worse.

"Headmaster," He greeted him curtly, trying to find a way out of this conversation and seeing none. He met his former mentor's eyes and had to fight the impulse of turning away. Damn, he _hated_ feeling guilty, and the old man was so good at making him. Especially when the echo of Potter's voice still ghosted through his mind.

_That was the first time in my life I thought about killing myself._

"Severus, I must say that I am quite disappointed with you," Dumbledore began, but the effect of gentle admonishment was ruined by the two figures by his side, Chairon, who towered over him in silent dignity, and Shadow, who seemed to have folded darkness around him like a cloak and was watching everyone in the hall, including Dumbledore, with the eyes of a hunter. _Now, who's next on the menu? _His eyes seemed to ask them all, and only Snape had a free-out-of-fangs tattoo to keep him safe.

"While I admit that I may not have valued your work with Harry in the way I should have, I am deeply shocked that…"

"You be quiet you barmy old man, or next time Tonks will fall from the platform and expose knobbly knees and underwear for all the wizarding world to see," Ayda commented in a friendly tone. She was standing at Snape's side in an altogether possessive way that Snape wasn't quite sure about.

Chairon whipped his head to the side, ostensibly in one of those centaur-gestures half of the teachers had begun to mimic subconsciously, but from his vantage point Snape could see the smile that had begun to form on the warrior's face.

"Mercury shines bright. Appearances can be trickery," He offered blandly, and now Snape had to avert his face to hide his snort. Was it a sign of approaching madness that he had begun to understand centaur humour?

"Headmaster," Snape began, weighing between the Gryffindor impulse to tell Dumbledore exactly what he thought of his manipulations and his inner Slytherin that promoted caution… Wait. Since when did he have… He _had _no Gryffindor impulses! There was no such thing as a Gryffindor bone in his body!

The Slytherin approach, then.

"Let me explain…" He began.

"Oh no, you won't," Ayda interrupted him with her usual lack of tact and timing. "You will sit down and have a real meal for once. I know Harry – he can make the best of us despair even on a full stomach. Without sleep and rest, who knows what you will turn into! Perhaps he'd even make you smile, and I doubt many in this castle would survive that!"

With a sinking heart, Snape saw that most staff members were watching them with open mouth and that Shadow had turned his face away, tactfully hiding something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

And there was no one he could complain to. After all, he was the one who had let her inside.

"Here, horseman," She continued, planting herself in front of Chairon and looking up at him in clear command. "Take the poor Potions Master and shove some dinner into him, will you? I'll take over with Headmaster knobbly-knees."

Chairon snorted. Snape wasn't sure whether it was a sound of amusement or irritation, but the centaur _did_ turn around with another word and led Snape over to one of the smaller tables scattered throughout the Great Hall. They made for greater privacy than the usual long tables with benches used during school year, and allowed the staff that had to remain over summer the illusion of a very large, very unfashionable restaurant they were choosing to dine at freely.

Now, it allowed Snape the questionable pleasure of picking through his lunch with Chairon standing by his side, watching him eat critically.

So this was what his life had come to. Being driven mad by Potter, manhandled by an old druid, guilt-ridden by Dumbledore and now babysat by a centaur. Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated self-pity.

It helped. But unfortunately, it didn't change the fact that Potter was waiting for him in his chambers, expecting him to continue the treatment as soon as possible. Nor did it make Chairon go away. Or stop Ayda from treating him like a slightly demented teenager.

"What is it with that woman?" Snape grumbled. "Why is she getting away with treating everyone like that? Even Shadow tolerates her, and _he _has thrown everybody's darling Potter against a wall."

"How could you blame a mountain for its size, or a thorn for its prickliness?" Chairon answered in a tone of dignified wisdom.

"Yes. She's prickly alright," Snape agreed darkly. "Not to mention the size of her ego."

Chairon snorted again. Great. Now he wasn't only beginning to understand centaurs, he was amusing them, too. That didn't bode well for his mental state.

_Ever wondered how you got that messed up?_

God, sometimes he just _hated_ his life. He felt gloominess descend again. So much about the comfort of social interaction. He had always known that was a lie cooked up by Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Other people didn't make you happy, they tread on you when you were down.

_Not Potter_, a voice in his mind whispered, and he seriously began to wonder if there was any hope of accidentally poisoning himself with his own lunch. Probably not. He just wasn't that lucky.

"Saturn's shadows darken your face, Healer," The centaur remarked quietly, and it took Snape a moment to realize that he was talking to him. Not to mention the longer moment it took him to understand what Chairon was on about. Centaurs.

"More like Potter's shadow," He answered dryly. Why was everyone trying to talk about his feelings these days? He had spent years developing a persona that would discourage exactly this kind of question.

Then again, Chairon seemed to be in easy contact not only with Shadow, prince of all vampires, but with Ayda, too, and if a man couldn't be put off by her attitude, there was nothing Snape could even hope to achieve.

"Harry Potter is a fierce warrior," Chairon commented quietly, and Snape wondered in irritation what _that_ had to do with anything. "Slow to anger, but once spurned to action, his deeds were terrible to behold. He is capable of a cold cruelty that no centaur could ever know."

He paused, staring into a past only he could see. Perhaps he was back at Kinnairds Head, remembering the massacre of the Death Eaters.

"But even fiercer than his anger is his forgiveness. It can overwhelm one's heart."

Snape turned his eyes to his plate. Forgiveness. Was that what unsettled him so? It sounded suspiciously close to what Ayda had told him, and he was tempted to dismiss it out of principle.

But it also sounded close to what he had felt back in Potter's quarters, after the memory had spat him out into a changed world.

And wasn't that what had irritated him the most from their first day together, the first memory they had seen? That Potter could mourn so easily, could let past wrongs slide away without looking back at them? That, the moment he discerned his giants to be windmills, he turned away from them and on to worthier aims.

Not a good thought, that, for it turned Snape into Don Quixote.

But wasn't he just that? All his life, Snape realized as he stared at his lunch with the strangely reassuring presence of Chairon by his side, all his life he had fought, hanging onto what he perceived as his right with teeth and claw.

There had never been anything easy for him, never anything smooth, but that had been alright, because he didn't _expect_ life to be smooth, damn it! Life was an endless struggle, uphill, with people left and right waiting to kick him the moment he went down.

_Yes well, we can't all have it easy_, a voice in his mind snarled, and it was the voice of the old Snape, the one who had torn into Potter and found vindictive pleasure in torturing Sirius Black.

_But Potter didn't have it easy_, he thought, memories of cupboards and fat uncles, of flames and snakes and dementors flashing through his mind. _If most lives are uphill, his is the Mount Everest. And still…_

Still he had let go. Had a knack for accepting people and making new friends, for finding pleasure in the small things that were given to him. Still he had forgiven Snape.

_Good gods, I'm not starting to buy into his saintness, am I? _A part of Snape thought with a growing desperation, but another part of him, a larger part, finally knew what to do.

Perhaps it was time to accept a few things of his own.

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"I will do it," Snape announced sharply several hours later.

"Do what?" Potter inquired calmly, glancing up from the book in his lap and looking at Snape as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them.

Snape took a deep breath.

"When the time comes, and the soul curse should be the only alternative left, I will do it."

And Potter smiled, his eyes lightening to the colour of mossy dew.

"Thank you," He accepted quietly.

And somehow, nothing else needed to be said.

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A/N: I'm really not satisfied with this chapter (which is part of the reason why it took me so long to update), but I figured that it needed to be done to move us forward. Please tell me if I should go over it once more and change things, or if it is acceptable!


	35. The Ceremony of Innocence

A/N: Thanks to all of you for the reviews and especially your patience. The 'Lioness' is nearly finished, and I hope I'll be able to concentrate on this story once the other's done and progress way faster than now.

Just a little warning before this chapter starts: It's graphic. _Really_ graphic. And dark, and violent, and quite disturbing. So if you're put off by violence and its graphic description, please do not read this. I'm serious.

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**The Ceremony of Innocence**

"I want to apologize," Potter said abruptly while the mists of the pensieve still surrounded them. "What you're going to see… it's awful. I shouldn't force this upon you."

"Another scene with me as protagonist?" Snape asked curtly. He had thought that they had come to an understanding of a sort, although his feelings were still too much in turmoil to evaluate even his own state of mind. But Potter seemed uneasy, and in the past week, that had only been the case when something utterly unexpected had awaited Snape, something fit to turn his world upside down and change his perspective forever.

He didn't think he was ready yet for another revelation of that kind. Or would ever be.

"No," Potter answered, clearly unhappy. "It's just… I'm not very proud of that part of my life. I don't want to relive it again and I don't want you to…" He trailed off, clearly not sure what to say, but for once Snape could read his expression easily.

Potter was worried how Snape would react to this memory. That much was true. But not because of what Snape had done or thought. Potter was… ashamed?

Snape frowned. That couldn't be right. Potter the saint, the martyr, always the victim of other, bigger forces outside of his control, was feeling ashamed of something? And not in the my-god-that-was-embarrassing sort of way, either. He was genuinely afraid Snape would think badly of him after seeing whatever was to come.

Now, Snape was truly curious.

It wasn't with glee that he turned around to survey the landscape of this new memory, rather with an ambiguous feeling of satisfaction and relief.

They were standing in a barren field, the grey sky pressing down on them and lending gloom to their otherwise harmless surroundings. No one seemed to be close, and Snape wondered whether the real memory hadn't started yet, but Potter pointed towards a slight elevation of the otherwise even ground.

"Behind it," He said, then he sat down on the ground and closed his eyes. Snape couldn't tell whether from exhaustion or because he simply refused to acknowledge this memory, but he had to admit that Potter's behaviour was starting to worry him.

Emotional trauma was a stressful to a patient as physical one, and Potter did not need another episode right now. The curve of his shoulders and the grey colour of his face told Snape all too clearly that Potter was barely hanging on as it was. A seizure could end this before any of them was prepared, and although Snape had agreed to do it in theory, he did _not_ want to destroy Potter's soul.

"Are you alright?" He asked, earning a half hearted nod from his patient.

"I just…" Potter began, then shook his head, lost for words. That had never happened to Potter before, either.

Snape grunted to hide his growing worry and walked over to the elevation with large, steady steps. As irritating as Potter's serenity had been to him at the beginning, now he wanted it back. Quite badly.

A talking, joking Potter might be getting on his nerves, but he was easy to judge and interpret. This Potter tried hard to tune out the world, retreating deeply into himself, and Snape didn't quite know how to reach him. He didn't even know if it would be the right thing to do, or if Potter knew best how to get through this situation whole.

Then he shrugged. He had all the data he could gather at the moment, so there was no use in wondering and theorizing. Better to keep a close eye on the memory and an even closer eye on Potter himself.

With that thought, he stepped onto the elevation and looked across the field.

It took him a moment to realize that he had to lower his gaze, but then he saw three figures, huddled in a trench someone had dug behind the wall of rocks and earth. Circling the trench, he stepped closer until he could recognize individual faces. Then he sighed.

Potter, Dawlish and Burgens.

But what were they doing here, in the middle of nothing? More importantly, what was Potter doing here? From the air temperature and the sparse vegetation around them, Snape judged the time to be late autumn, and although his limited view of Potter didn't allow a close examination, Snape didn't think he was much older than in the last memory he had seen.

The middle of the school year, then. Approaching evening. And yet Potter was outside the safe walls of Hogwarts, in a region totally unknown to Snape, accompanied by two Order members.

Snape turned around, wondering whether to demand an explanation from his Potter, but one look at the small figure sitting cross-legged in the middle of the field convinced him otherwise. Potter was busy dealing with his own demons. Snape's questions could only agitate him further.

"So, how's your training going then, Potter?" Dawlish asked, obviously trying to break the uncomfortable silence between the three. "Snape whipping you around much?"

Potter nodded. "He, and Moody, and McGonagall," He answered curtly, without even bothering to look at the older man.

Snape, too, nodded. So Potter had finally stopped licking every hand that tried to pet him. That was something at least.

"I'm surprised Dumbledore let you out for this," Burgens now tried, and in the blink of an eye Potter's muscles had tightened until he was thrumming with tension.

"You mean after what happened the last time?" He demanded angrily, "Because I really don't…"

"No, Potter, that's not what I meant," Burgens tried to soothe the irate teenager, sending a cautious glance towards his partner.

Snape winced in sympathy. What a pleasant prospect – to be caught on guard duty with a moody teenager that interpreted every word as an attack. In comparison, he really had it easy with the present-day-Potter. But that still didn't answer the question why Potter was here at all.

"You don't have to worry," Dawlish now tried, obviously mistaking the reason for Potter's violent reaction. "This is just a scouting mission, just a few reported Death Eater sightings in the area, probably nothing to it. We'll lie low for a few hours, have a look around, and then it's back in the castle for you. No reason to be frightened."

Potter snorted. "Yeah," He whispered, "No reason at all."

Again, Burgens caught Dawlish's eye, and the silent communication between them confirmed to Snape what he had already known about the pair of aurors – they had been partners for a very long time. If he remembered correctly, they had even entered the Order together.

"I'm going to have a look around, see if I can find anything," Burgens declared, his forced casualness all too obvious to Snape. From the way his shoulders tightened, Potter seemed to have heard it, too. But he kept his face in the shadows, averted from the Order members, and gave no reaction at all.

Dawlish and Burgens nodded to each other, then the latter was gone, vanishing into the bushes with barely a sound. Snape raised a brow in silent respect. If the Headmaster truly wanted Potter to learn stealth and surveillance, he hardly could have chosen a better pair to teach him.

_Stop buying into his logic,_ he then told himself firmly and shook his head, as if to banish Dumbledore's thoughts from it, _He shouldn't have learned this sort of thing at all at his age. It's outrageous! Not to mention against every school legislation ever made_.

"Look, Potter," Dawlish now said, his face softening somewhat. "I've got a boy your age at home, and I know that you've gotten the hard deal. It can't be easy to have that pressure put on your shoulders."

Potter stirred slightly, his face still hidden in the shadows. When he answered, his voice was harsh and very cold.

"Don't," He said.

"Don't what?" Dawlish asked, honestly confused. Snape could understand him all too well. No normal teenager son could prepare one for the madness that was Potter.

"Don't try and get close to me. If you do, you'll die, just like all the others."

Dawlish's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a hissing breath. Again, Snape could sympathize. That wasn't what you expected a rebellious teenager to say, not even one with Potter's history. And what hurt most weren't the words themselves. It was the way he spoke them – tired, resigned, and utterly convinced. Like a lesson he had learned the hard way.

"That's nonsense, Potter," Dawlish finally said, the argument weak against Potter's conviction. "This is not your fault."

Potter snorted, but there was no amusement in his face as he turned towards the auror.

"Remus said so, too," He answered without inflection. "About ten minutes before he died."

Dawlish shook his head, slightly overwhelmed by this reply. He opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden voice, high and ghastly and all too familiar, stopped him in his tracks.

"Awww," She purred, "Is baby Potter still whining about all the bad things in the world?"

Snape could see his own shock mirrored on Dawlish's and Potter's face, and before he could think, his wand was out and aimed straight at the intruder.

At Bellatrix Lestrange.

Only then did he realize that he was helpless in this plane, that he could neither help nor defend. Potter and the auror were alone.

And then he remembered, with a sinking feeling, that Dawlish and Burgens had died sometime in the autumn of '97.

"Potter," Dawlish shouted, already up and running away from the enemy that had suddenly appeared among them, "Run! Apparate away!"

"Oh, but he can't, can you, little Potter-baby?" Bellatrix asked, crazy delight dancing in her eyes, "He doesn't know how to do it yet, the little pumpkin!"

Potter's hand darted to his neck, where the emergeny-portkey would be hanging on a chain if procedures had been executed correctly, but Lestrange was quicker.

"I'll take that, thank you very much," She said sharply, and a flick of her wand had the portkey soaring out of Potter's hands, towards her.

"Hmm, I wonder where this will take me?" She mused, blocking and returning Dawlish's _reducto_ absently. "Perhaps into your school, where all of your little friends are waiting for you with tea and cake?"

She bared her teeth, licked the tips of her canines in a gesture that was both frightening and obscene.

"I think I'd like that," She decided, blocking another attack spell and answering with a binding spell that had Dawlish twitching helplessly on the ground. "Tea and cake, always my favourites. Oh, and all the sweet little boys and girls, just waiting to play…_Crucio!_"

Dawlish screamed as the red light enveloped him and his limbs began to dance in the ghastly rhythm of the spell.

"Oh, he likes that, doesn't he?" Bellatrix giggled, and the light intensified, "Always the quiet ones, they say."

She flicked her wand again and the spell ended, leaving Dawlish trembling on the ground.

"How would you like to dance for me, Potty?" Bellatrix asked, and her eyes darkened in expectation.

Snape took a deep breath, knowing well what her expression meant. He had seen her face like this more times than he could count. It was the excitement of the kill.

"All your limbs twitching to my music, and your sweet little screams, just for me?" She whispered, her lips wet and dark. "Would you like that, baby Potter?"

She seemed to have forgotten about Dawlish, focusing instead on the bigger prey. But that had been Bellatrix's one flaw right from the start, even before she had gone as mad as a sadistic hatter – she fought and killed for joy, and though she was one of the most dangerous fighters Snape had ever known, she was unable to plan or control herself.

Snape glanced at Potter, who was lay pressed against the ground by a spell, his face rigid and white. But not afraid, not the slightest bit afraid, and as Snape saw his green eyes darken to the colour of the killing curse, he really began to worry.

_He made it out alive_, He thought franticly. _I know that_. _He made it out alive_.

"Don't you want to talk to me, little Harry?" Bellatrix now asked, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Don't you like me any more? Are you angry with me?"

She giggled again, and raised her wand. "Let's see how angry we can make you, shall we? _Crucio!_"

This time, the light was a dark red so intense that it illuminated the night around them, and Snape understood that Bellatrix _hated_ the boy, hated all that he stood for. Hurting was a pleasure to her, and she had liked hurting Dawlish, but torturing Potter had to be a personal triumph.

His worry deepened.

He watched Potter twitch and writhe on the ground, more than once convinced that he was witnessing the beginning of his illness, but there were none of the other signs, just the horrible, uncoordinated movement of his limbs.

"Yes, Potter, dance for me!" Bellatrix howled in delight, "Scream for your life, my little nightingale!"

But Potter didn't scream, and he didn't break. Through the endless minutes that Bellatrix kept the curse on him, _he_ kept his eyes on her, fixing her with a look of rage and hate. Snape could see the line of his jaw, telling him that Potter bit his teeth as hard as he could, and the blood trickling from his nose, and he was once more surprised by Potter's sheer strength of will.

But even Potter couldn't keep this up much longer.

And then, when Snape was sure they had reached the breaking point, a pale blue light slammed into Bellatrix' side from the left. She gasped in pain and sheer outrage.

"_Avada Kedavra_," She screeched and Dawlish, brave stubborn Dawlish, slumped to the ground, wand still in his lifeless hand.

It seemed that Potter had been right again.

Snape turned back to his charge and saw the guilt of yet another death descend on his shoulders. But he also saw that the brief respite had given him strength. Slowly, swaying dangerously, he stood up, half supported by one of the bushes.

He drew his wand and fired off a _reducto_, only to be blocked easily by Bellatrix, who cackled with glee when she saw her prey back on his feet.

"Ready for another round, little Harry?" She asked, and a mere flicker of her wrist had Potter disarmed and his wand in her hand. She examined it critically, then stowed it away in the pocket of her robe. Even she knew that the Dark Lord would want this price for himself.

"Kill me then," Potter shouted, helpless without his wand and still shivering from the effects of the Cruciatus. "That's what you want, isn't it? End it, Lestrange!"

"No itsy-bitsy Potter, that's not what I want," Bellatrix purred, obviously amused, "What I want is to destroy you from inside out, to see you crawl on the ground before me and beg me for death," She licked her lips, as if she could already taste his defeat.

"First, I'll take you to my Lord, bound and housebroken like a good little puppy," Again, that terrible, mad giggle.

"Then, I'll kill your friends, one after the other, starting with that stupid redhead and the dirty mudblood."

All colour drained from Potter's face, and he gave a strangled sound of horror.

"You can't," He whispered, too shocked to be defiant, "Hogwarts is safe…"

"That old pile of stones, keep us out?" Bellatrix mocked, her eyes widening dramatically. "Oh, we could kill them in a heartbeat! I could creep into the Gryffindor rooms at night and rip your little mudblood's heart out before she even woke up. Or I could take her to my master, and he would feed her to his snake."

She paused, the glint in her eyes deepening. Snape had never seen a smile as cruel as hers.

"And that's nothing compared to what we'll do with your little girlfriend… Ginny's her name, right? She looks _delicious_."

With a snarl of rage, Potter hurled himself directly at Bellatrix Lestrange, all caution forgotten.

The utter idiocy of the move took Bellatrix as much by surprise as it did Snape. No sane person would attack a witch with bare hands, but it seemed that Potter was fairly beyond the limits of any sanity he'd ever possessed.

His face was twisted in rage, no, more than rage: fury.

"I'll kill you!" He howled, "I'll rip you to pieces! You killed Sirius! You… killed… Sirius!"

Without even noticing, he knocked her wand aside, trapping her hand under her body as he took her down with him. Snape could hear the dry, brittle snap of bone and then Bellatrix screamed in pain.

The sound seemed to lift the red haze of fury that had fallen over the boy, and for a moment, Potter seemed to realize what he was doing, and drew back a bit.

But then Bellatrix laughed, a shrill, insane laugh that savoured pain and twisted it into lust.

"That's all you've got, you little coward?" She screamed, "You're just to _good_ to hurt me, aren't you? You'll stand by and cry your little heart out while my master burns the world to ashes!"

And Potter was gone, lost in his rage and a deep, burning hate that turned his face into a monster's mask.

"I'll kill your master," He hissed, grabbing her by the throat and raising her head, only to smash it against the ground in the rhythm of his words, "But…first…I'll…kill…you!"

Snape stared in horror at the scene unfolding before him. Potter had warned him, he remembered vaguely, but never had he expected something like this. Never had he believed Potter able of such cruelty, such relentless violence.

Bellatrix had begun fighting back in earnest now, her hands flailing as she tried to dislodge Potter's hold on her body, but Potter seemed to feel no pain as he tore into her. He was claws and teeth now, a weapon driven by nothing but the will for revenge.

Snape shuddered as boyish fingers clawed and ripped and turned red with the blood of his enemy's skin, he choked as Potter used his knees and elbows to pound into her, no trace of fighting skill visible, only the _need_ to hurt, to tear, to destroy.

"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU ALL! I'LL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!" Potter howled and drew Bellatrix' head towards him in the ghastly parody of an embrace, only to smash her back against the rocky surface. "I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT PAIN IS!"

And still Bellatrix was laughing, was gasping in high, shrill yelps of pain and amusement at the universe that had gone mad and taken them both with it, was laughing into the face of her killer, knowing that, no matter what would happen, she had won her ultimate victory.

Potter screamed on, a wordless howl of rage and misery. His fingers tore at her throat and her blood coated his hands, spattered his face.

"YOU'LL BE SORRY FOR WHAT YOU DID! I'LL MAKE ALL OF YOU SORRY!"

His fingers found her face, clawed at her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes…

Snape couldn't bear it. He turned away. He tried to close his ears against the inhuman sounds, tried to ignore the coppery stench that permeated the air.

Then, suddenly, there was a new presence at his side, and he flinched violently, his breath coming in painful, short gasps.

"I am sorry," Potter-the-man whispered, standing a few feet to the side as if he didn't dare come closer. He looked very small, and his eyes were glued to his hands, as if he could still see the blood on them.

"I am so sorry."

Snape took a deep breath, prepared himself for what he would see, and turned back.

It was over.

Bellatrix was dead, and the bloody, mangled thing that was left of her made Snape's stomach heave. Potter-the-boy, his howling muted to a pitiable whimper, still lay on top of her, collapsed in the ghastly evidence of his killing spree.

It looked obscene, the twisted imitation of an act Potter was too young to have committed.

It looked as if Bellatrix had won. Her blood on his hands, his face, his fingers buried in her hair as he rested on what was left of her chest, sobbing silently and without strength. Harry Potter, poster boy of the light, and Bellatrix Lestrange, insane servant of the greatest darkness their world had ever known, had become one in a single act of unimaginable violence.

Snape wanted to vomit.

"I am sorry," Potter-the-man whispered again, and somewhere in the back of his mind Snape wondered to whom he was talking. He wasn't sure it mattered anymore.

Snape raised a hand to brush his hair back and found that he was trembling violently. He hadn't expected this. He could never have imagined this. And to think that he had trained the boy all this time, that he had fought with him and taunted him and never known…

For a moment, he felt dizzy and wondered how he could still react this strongly to violence after all he had seen and done.

But even the torture sessions of the Dark Lord had never been like this, had never been so raw, so brutal, so… soul-twisting.

He shuddered, his eyes still on Potter and Lestrange in their unnatural embrace.

Then, with effort, he pulled himself together. He was Potter's healer, he reminded himself, here to control the situation and keep the stress to his patient to a minimum, and even though he had no idea to deal with this, no idea how to take it in, he knew Potter well enough by now to keep _him _together.

"Why, Potter, I never knew you had it in you," He drawled, and if his voice was a bit rougher than usual, both chose to ignore it.

Potter-the-man swallowed. He was still eyeing his hands as if they were dangerous animals, ready to attack him at any moment.

"I never told anyone," He admitted. "The aurors I called saw the burned body and thought they knew what had happened. I didn't want anyone to know."

Snape swallowed, forcing down the bile that had risen in his throat.

"I can understand that," He answered, still as dryly, then paused in surprise.

"What fire?" He asked, and Potter gestured over to the bodies, still not raising his eyes to the scene in front of him.

"That fire," He answered quietly.

With growing disbelief, Snape watched Potter stumble to his feet. The boy was crying now, sobbing so hard that his whole body shook, tears mixing with the red blood on his face. But still he stood, still he leaned down over Bellatrix' corpse and searched her pockets for his wand.

Still he cast an _Incendium_ that engulfed her body in flames.

And Potter, _his _Potter, stretched out his hands until they seemed afire, too, reached into the flames and touched the mangled body of Bellatrix Lestrange, silently, his skin grey with exhaustion and his face a study of regret.

"I am so sorry," He whispered once more. There was no hint of anger in his eyes, no sense of justification. For once in this strange journey they had undertaken, his expression mirrored that of his younger self perfectly.

Right now, both Potters were tired, lost, and terribly alone.

Snape's heart ached for them, and even with the evidence of their wild cruelty right at his feet, he could only feel pity and sorrow.

He remembered the bright eyes and constantly awed face of the young Potter, the stoic bravery the boy had displayed so many times, and the quiet sense of justice that had enraged Snape time and time again.

Nothing was left of that boy right now. Young Potter's moral compass wasn't off, it had been shattered and smashed to dust.

_This should never have happened_, Snape thought, staring silently from Potter-the-boy to the burning corpse of Lestrange. _It isn't right. He kept his innocence for so long_.

But how long could innocence last in a firestorm of rage?

Potter-the-man's head was bowed, his shoulders hunched up as if he was awaiting punishment for his past deeds. There was no ready acceptance in him now, not the serenity with which he had seen his childhood memories or the clean, easy mourning that had accompanied Black's death, and Snape longed with all his heart to have that confidence back.

Suddenly, he understood why Potter had been willing to die rather than revisit his memories. It was a miracle that he had risen from this once and managed to become whole again. How could he even hope to manage it a second time?

In the silence that surrounded the funeral pyre of Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the craziest and most evil witches Snape had ever known, the Potions master's hand rose slowly, as if of its own accord, and landed silently on the shoulder of the man beside him.

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could change, Snape thought. But he could stand by Potter's side. He could be _there_. He could _witness._

Potter didn't move, didn't even give a sign that he registered the gesture, but somehow the darkness around them seemed to lift a bit. And after a minute that seemed like an hour to Snape, he stepped away from the fire, away from his past self that was still staring numbly at his first kill, and exited the memory in silence.

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A/N: This chapter's title is from the poem _The Second Coming_, written by Yeats:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The Blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Review, please!


	36. Stiffening the Upper Lip

**A/N**:

Well, it's been a while! I'm glad to tell you that the _Lioness_ is basically finished now, and that update rates for this should go up enormously over the next weeks. I'm not giving you a schedule, but I am very hopeful!

Have fun reading, Kayly

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**Stiffening the Upper Lip**

A glass of whisky, a book and flames roaring in the fireplace. Normally a good way to spend the evening, but tonight, whisky, book and fire were forgotten as Snape stared at the phenomenon that had steadily taken over his whole life.

Harry Potter. On his couch, stretched out in self-abandoned sleep. It was hard to reconcile the innocence of his pale face, the vulnerability of his sleeping body with the scene of violence he had witnessed earlier this evening.

Looking back, it seemed to Snape that each day, each hour of the past week had revealed another facet of Potter's character to him, each as unexpected and inconceivable as the next. Power, serenity, self-confidence, sorrow, love and hate – nothing of it fit together, and yet Potter inhabited these impossible contrasts with ease.

Or so it had seemed, until this evening.

Still cradling the glass of whisky, his thumb rubbing absently over the cold smoothness, Snape tried to recall when exactly this shift in his life had happened, when he had accepted Potter and the madness of his life at face value, when he had bought into his strange philosophy. When he had chosen to lower his shields for Potter and let him in.

Although, now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if he'd ever really had that choice. There was just too much in all of this that struck home, that tore at him, made him bleed and yet made him feel more alive than he had for so many years.

He had always been a man of shadows, nuances, hairline fractures and greys. But a few days with Potter and he had stepped willingly into the full glare of sunlight. A few of his memories and he had severed the ties that had anchored his existence for decades. Had freed himself of leashes he hadn't even noticed before.

He had bound himself to this man and his friends, without knowing where all this would end up, without calculation or second thoughts.

Had bound himself to a man who was even now slipping away into the shadows.

Snape hissed angrily and downed his whisky without savouring the taste. There was no denying it, and, changed as he had been by the past week, he was still a man to face the facts.

Potter was dying. Slowly, and not without fight, but inevitably.

The rings under his eyes had turned into dark smudges, and even with the blanket draped over him (and Snape refused to consider whether it was more than duty to a patient that had caused him to fetch that blanket) his thinness was obvious.

Although deeply asleep at the moment, Potter twitched and mumbled, too low to make the words out, but his expression betrayed the unpleasant nature of his dreams. But that was better than the moments when he suddenly lay completely still, his breathing so shallow that Snape would hurry towards him, anxiously checking his pulse because only a corpse could lie so still.

He had done that several times this past hour.

"I swear, Potter, if you die on me now after all I've done…" He whispered, but let the sentence sink back into silence without finishing it. There was no threat that worked against death, after all.

"So you see it too, Master Snape."

Snape flinched violently at the sudden voice in his back, and nearly fell out of his armchair in a highly undignified manner, only catching himself in the last moment before tumbling to the floor.

When he looked up from his half sitting, half lying position, it was to meet the amused eyes of one Prince of Vampires.

"Shadow," He said, trying to nod in a dignified manner and refusing to blush. These were his own rooms, damn it. He could make a fool out of himself inside here as much as he wanted, and no one had a right to comment!

"I'm sorry. I seem to have missed your knock."

Shadow's grin broadened. "That might be because I didn't knock, Master Snape," He commented lightly, giving no other explanation for his sudden appearance in Snape's quarters in the middle of the night.

"Right," Snape answered, trying to lay all his sarcasm into the comment but not daring to say more. Shadow's teeth looked very sharp in the firelight.

Instead, he silently offered Shadow a glass of whisky and waited for the vampire to continue his thoughts.

Which he did. After a long, creepy moment during which both of them stared at Potter like the members of a demented fan club.

Snape chose not to dwell on that moment.

"They all worry about him," Shadow then said quietly, his eyes still on Potter. "Even Ayda, though you wouldn't notice it." He flashed Snape a quick smile, his eyes glowing in the firelight.

"But most of them can't even imagine that he might actually die. They are so used to Harry's surviving even the most ludicrous predicaments that the thought of his death never crossed their minds."

"But it crossed yours," Snape didn't ask. He didn't need to. He had seen his own thoughts mirrored on this immortal face all too clearly.

"I have not met many humans like him in the centuries of my existence," Shadow answered quietly, his eyes fixed on things long gone. "But they all died young."

"He will _not_ die," Snape stated, but what he really meant was _I will not let him_.

Shadow chuckled and sent him a long, dark look.

"As few as I met of Potter's kind, "He then said. "Yours is even rarer, Master Snape."

Snape bristled. "I can't say that I met many Princes of Vampires before this week, either," He snapped, not caring that he sounded insolent. "Nor mad druids, nor centaur kings."

Shadow's chuckle deepened, as if he knew something Snape didn't (which was most certainly the case, but there was no reason to be smug about it, was there?). Then, it died away and his concentration returned to Potter.

"He is slipping away from us," He said, his eyes feeding on the pale face of his would-be son. "He has always done that. Crawl back into himself like a hermit crab, hide everything vulnerable inside. When I got to know him, I thought he was a spectre, or someone without normal human feelings, so little of him was left on the surface."

He smiled, but it was a sad smile, the one Snape had seen Order members smile when they looked at old photographs on which everyone but themselves was dead and had been so for years.

"His choice to make peace with himself, to let the hate and the anger go was a good one, back then, but it certainly has drawbacks."

"What do you mean," Snape asked, although he knew the answer already.

"He is unwilling to fight for himself. For others he will rip himself apart, but when the choice is up to him, he will prefer giving in, accepting what is hurled at him."

His eyes darkened, and he looked up at Snape with a sudden motion of his head that, a week ago, would have made Snape draw his wand in panic.

"He will cooperate as long as the threat of Voldemort hangs over this world, Professor. But if you find out that Voldemort was dead already when the split happened, I'm not sure whether he will let you treat himself any further. Perhaps he will decide to slip away peacefully, and vanish into the nothing. It's not a concept that would frighten Harry Potter."

"Perhaps he will surprise you, Sape offered after a long moment, thinking about darkness, and shame, and Bella's face. "Perhaps all this will change him."

"You mean change him as much as it changed you?" Shadow asked without looking at Snape, and Snape felt irritation bubble up inside him.

Really, what was it with Potter's friends? Could they not accept a single personal boundary?

"No, Master Snape," He then continued, not noticing Snape's anger or simply not caring. "If anyone should surprise me in this, it will be you."

And without a nod or another word, he vanished as silently as he had come.

Snape took a deep breath, raised his whisky glass and entrusted it with a few choice words about vampires. He then added a particularly fitting sentence about the nature of aristocracy, moved on to meddlers and busybodies and closed with several brilliant but rather pessimistic observations about the world in general.

He felt better after that.

"Don't believe everything Shadow says, Professor," Potter said softly, and Snape nearly fell of his chair for the second time. "He _is _a vampire, after all."

"Well, I think it's rather being your friend that makes him so irritating," Snape sneered. "It seems to be a common theme."

Potter smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes and the shadows lingered on his face.

"I know," He whispered, sounding old and broken. "And I'm very…"

"Don't you dare say that you're sorry, Potter," Snape snapped. "You are _not_ the centre of the universe. People make their own decisions for purely selfish reasons all the time, and if you happen to benefit from them, it is merely a coincidence."

Potter's smile reached deeper this time, but it still lacked the easy warmth and serenity that had driven Snape mad time and again these past days.

"Of course, Profess," Not the self-confident, teasing tone he was used to by now.

Snape resisted the urge to reach for the whisky bottle again. Potter was changing in front of his eyes, and it wasn't just the illness that caused it.

_Soon, every single light will go out and leave me in darkness_, he had said. And the darkness had come. Powerful as ever. It was swallowing him hole.

Snape cleared his throat uneasily.

"When I was seventeen, I killed for the first time," He began without preamble. "I was unprepared for it, but too frightened to refuse orders. I _wanted_ to be a Death Eater back then, I _needed_ to. And it was clean, quick, very easy in a way. That's the most horrible thing about it. I don't remember her name or face or whether she was a witch. Just how easily she was killed."

"You don't have to tell me that," Potter whispered hoarsely.

"I know," Snape answered, but what he really meant was that he was not the man to console or cuddle Potter, that he wouldn't offer something he himself had always refused.

_I don't know much about light, Potter. But there's a lot I know about darkness._

He cleared his throat again, uneasily aware of it but unable to help himself. Time to change the subject.

"So tell me Potter, why wasn't I aware of your little excursions in sixth year?"

Potter chuckled weakly, but some of the tension was gone from his face.

"I assume because the Headmaster expected a not so favourable reaction from you," He answered. "Even I can remember several very impressive monologues on the subject of my rule breaking, and I assume he had to listen to more of them."

"And there was good reason for them," Snape said, eager to be on safe ground again. "Letting any student run wild like that would be unforgivable, but given your special situation…"

"Well, the Headmaster considered my 'special situation' reason enough to send me out on missions with the Order. And then there were all those training sessions of course."

"Which were probably multitudinous in nature, accounting for your abysmal grades that year," Snape mused. "Another thing I didn't know about."

"I'm afraid there's rather a lot you don't know about my sixth year, professor."

"Glad to see that you haven't lost all your irritating character traits," Snape drawled in answer." I think I can live without the dreadful cheer just as long as you refrain to answer my questions in a comprehensive manner. Perhaps you would like to add a little Arthurian reference?"

This time, Potter grinned outright, and one could nearly mistake him for a non-moribund.

"Well, if you're asking so nicely, Professor…" He began, mischief in his eyes.

Snape growled, refusing to admit his relief even to himself, and rose from his chair. He collected another vial of the strengthening potion, and handed it to Potter with a first-class sneer.

"Here, drink this. And if I'm very lucky tonight, you might choke on it."

And Potter smiled, and drank the potion.

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Review, please!


	37. The BloodDimmed Tide

A/N: So a funny thing happened last September. I'd just finished the main body of the 'Lioness' and was toying with the epilogue, and then I sat down to write the next chapters of this story. And found that I couldn't. Not because of writer's block or anything, but because this part of the story seriously freaked me out, and I knew what I wanted to go for, and I wasn't sure how to write it (and believe me, I tried). Mostly because good (and I mean good in a literary sense) torture isn't written during lunch break.

So I tried and tried again, and nothing came of it. When April rolled around and I still hadn't given you the promised update, I decided to shift part of my insane work load and take a whole week just to write this. It freaked me out, and got me depressed, but it's done.

Which means for you: The key scenes of the coming chapters are now written, and I'm pretty happy with them (though they are awful and terrible and reaaallly depressing). Which means updates at least once a week for hopefully the rest of the fic. There are about ten more chapters to go, and I'll try to finish and post them as soon as possible, since I wouldn't force too long a waiting period on anyone in this arc of the story.

That's my plan. I hope you agree! Now go and read the depressing story…

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**The Blood-Dimmed Tide**

Curselights and shouted spells greeted Snape as he stepped from the mists, and he had to suppress the instinct to draw his wand and join the battle.

Instead, his eyes darted to Potter-the-man to check his condition and then went in search of the memory-Potter that had to be hidden in this mad chaos of bodies and magic somewhere.

"What is going on?" He shouted against the battle noise, trying to take stock of the situation and analyze it at the same time.

He could recognize several Order members – none of which had lived to see the Dark Lord's demise, he realized with a sinking heart – engaged in a fight with several dozen Death Eaters. The Death Eaters were winning in a quite spectacular fashion, and more than one of the corpses that littered the ground was familiar to Snape. He was quite sure that he knew an equal numbers of fighters on each side, but luckily the Death Eaters' faces were obscured with masks and spared him the memory of old friends he had betrayed.

"The middle of my seventh year," Potter answered shortly. "I'm about to be captured."

Although their talk the day before seemed to have lightened his conscience, Potter seemed changed. During breakfast he'd been monosyllabic and without his usual exuberant emotional reactions. By the time they had entered the pensieve for the first memory of the day, he appeared downright cold.

Snape wasn't sure if it were the remnants of the last memory that caused this behaviour or the knowledge of what was yet to come.

He chanced another look at Potter and saw that he had chosen the base of a tree as his perch. Knees drawn up to his chest, head leaned back against the trunk, Potter had closed his eyes and seemed half asleep, ignoring his surroundings completely.

As if he hadn't noticed that battle that was raging around him, or as if he simply couldn't be bothered by it.

Surreptitiously, Snape aimed a diagnosis charm at his patient. Potter was alright, but his energy levels were all the way down despite the Pepper-Up Snape had administered only a few minutes ago. And the fact that Potter didn't even seem to notice the spell washing over him was a whole diagnosis all by itself.

_It's just nine in the morning_, Snape thought, wondering how on earth they could manage the four memories scheduled for today. _Merlin, I wish someone had bothered with developing a finer diagnosis process for the Fading_. _Only twenty-six memories done and his body could give in any day now._

And still, he couldn't leave Potter behind with the – albeit small – comforts a hospital bed could offer him, for the symptoms would only be visible on memory-Potter if _his_ Potter was close to him. And despite all the good advice various people who should have known better had given over the past week, simply jumping to the last bad memory and hoping _that _would be the one causing the Fading wouldn't work.

Snape had studied this illness for half a year during his time as Death Eater, and if there was one thing he knew about it, it was that the cause was completely unpredictable. Within the parameters of physical and mental stress he had set for the memories' selection, the trigger could be anything, from the most terrible event in a person's life to something appearing rather banale to the uninvolved observer.

There was no way of predicting which event would be surmountable to a person and which would be life-shattering. That much was true even for persons without the kind of mad chaos Potter preferred to call life.

If anything, the process of this treatment had confirmed Snape's view of the diagnostic process. There had been memories fitting the parameters that he hadn't expected in a lifetime (Black's death had been ugly, but it didn't really compare to Voldemort's resurrection in Snape's opinion), and others that he'd been utterly sure would cause a Fading in anyone (the attack by more than a hundred Dementors sprang to mind).

And yet he'd been wrong on all counts, and Potter himself didn't seem too sure, although he'd never really answered this question to Snape's full satisfaction.

As things stood, they could either have hopped wildly through Potter's memories and shot Snape's methodology to hell, or they could have done the sensible – if less intuitive – thing and stuck to the plan. As Snape had done. And he would do it again, even though Potter was now huddled at the foot of a tree, looking like a shadow of the confident, powerful man he'd met a week ago.

He would do it again, because if he ever gave up his scientific process, he could just as well start handing out lemon drops for all the difference he would make.

Though in hindsight, he should have trusted Potter's assurances concerning his life before Hogwarts and started a bit later. But he'd never tell him that.

Snape groaned and turned away from his patient. He was ruined to the world! There was a battle going on around him, friends and foes facing each other in lethal combat. He should be floating on adrenaline right now, not thinking about Harry Potter!

How was the younger one, anyway?

Doing his best to avoid the fighters left and right – memory-persons were insubstantial if one came in contact with them, but he'd never liked the feeling -, Snape searched the melee for Potter and found him, unsurprisingly, in the thick of it.

What did surprise him, however, was Potter's prowess at duelling. He'd certainly shown promise during his training (in sixth year – that short pitiable excuse for a duelling club in Potter's second year had shown him disastrously lacking in ability), but nothing that had hinted even remotely at this.

Potter spun and blocked, he hexed and cursed and ducked in a tempo that Snape, who was famous for his duelling skills even among Hogwarts professors, found astonishing. The boy wasn't even eighteen, and already he could have fought and defeated most of the aurors Snape had known.

At seventeen, Potter already had much of the agility and reflexes the twenty five-year-old had exhibited before his body weakened, but his technique was an entirely different matter.

Conventional and unimaginative where his fighting style was now exotic and perfectly targeted to the situation, Potter made up for his lack of finesse with sheer willpower. Where _his_ Potter was all elegance and efficiency, this Potter was aggression in its purest form. He barely seemed to notice when a spell grazed his body, and he used his arsenal of spells indiscriminately, not caring if his opponent was stunned or slashed in half

He looked a bit like Bellatrix, but without the playfulness, and there was no joy in his eyes. Only fury.

But despite all that, he was only a seventeen year old boy in a battle between grown-ups, and it was only a question of _when _he'd blunder.

There! A spell shot across the edge of his shield and engulfed his thigh in flames, only for a heartbeat, but a heartbeat was enough. Potter went slack and would have collapsed if not for the grip of a black cloaked Death Eater who suddenly appeared from behind.

The man pointed his wand to the skies, and suddenly the green light of the Dark Mark illuminated the devastated faces of aurors and Order members, their enemies gone, and with them their prize.

Potter was – once again – a prisoner of the Dark Lord, but this time there would be no rescues, no last-minute-escape.

It would have seemed rather anticlimactic to Snape, had he not known that this was now considered the key event to the second war against Voldemort in every book he'd bothered to read (and thrown against the wall in subsequent disgust).

And all because of these stupid, incompetent Order members that couldn't manage to keep a seventeen-year-old out of battle, that followed orders no matter how imbecilic they were.

Not for the first time, Snape thought in disgust that Potter had truly survived _despite_ the help they had provided.

He shuddered, aimed another diagnostic spell at his Potter, and waited for the mists of the pensieve to engulf them.

0o0

The chamber that re-formed around them was familiar to Snape.

He blinked twice, spun around, and met Potter's eyes with an expression of utter shock.

"Here?" He asked. "The primary stronghold? You've been here all the time?"

Potter was leaning against the rough stonewall of the unadorned room that served as apparition point, watching as his past self struggled wildly against the hold of his kidnappers and received a punch in the stomach for his efforts.

"You didn't know?" He asked with faint surprise. "I thought… I always assumed that the Order knew and simply couldn't get me out… or wouldn't, since Dumbledore…"

"Dumbledore what?" Snape asked sharply, but Potter just shook his head and closed his eyes in obvious exhaustion.

_He is your patient_, Snape reminded himself. _Healers do not snap at patients. This is difficult enough without your baggage on top of it_.

But he remembered it so clearly now – the other side of the coin. The panicked message about an emergency Order meeting, the arrivals of hooded and cloaked strangers in Hogwarts (so indiscrete it would have made a blind person suspicious), the presence of Ronald Weasley and the Granger girl, despite Molly's protests.

They had looked incredibly young as they sat huddled between Moody and Minerva, a sharp and painful reminder of Potter's age.

And the way their eyes had filled with tears, the way Molly's face had crumbled, the way the collective Order seemed to sag in shock when Dumbledore had joined them, had laced his fingers together and had said, without a hint of his usual optimism:

"It is my sad duty to inform you all that Harry has been taken prisoner by Voldemort."

Yes, Snape's memories of that day were all too clear. The Order had been mad with worry and anger at Potter's capture, and most of that anger had been piled on him, their spy, always good for a scapegoat.

Why hadn't he _known,_ or had he? Was _he_ the one who'd informed Voldemort of Potter's whereabouts (which was a real laugh, considering that he'd known nothing about any of this, the secret missions, the additional training, Potter's duelling skills)?

He'd never _liked_ Potter, after all. And hadn't he complained often enough that they were stuck with such a pitiful excuse for a saviour? Perhaps he'd preferred the chances the other side offered, after all?

Snape hissed, wishing that he could punch someone. But the only other substantial person in reach was Potter, and with him punching was for medicinal reasons only.

"No," he said instead. "I didn't know. Voldemort never summoned me here while you were his prisoner. In fact, he didn't summon me at all."

The whole time he'd been sitting there, waiting for a hint, a _trace_ of a clue of what had happened, going through every source he could use without appearing too desperate, risking things that could blow his cover wide open, three months of waiting, and the hateful voices of the Order in his ears all that time, whispering that he didn't care, didn't even try…

"I'd have been surprised if he had," Potter whispered, eyes still closed and face chalk white. "Even if he trusted _you_ completely, he couldn't be sure that Dumbledore wouldn't find a way to use you against him."

His lids cracking open, he flashed Snape a hint of green eyes and a memory of a smile. "The old man's devious that way."

Snape wasn't sure if he meant Dumbledore or Voldemort, but found that he didn't care.

Silently, he watched the Death Eaters half-carry the struggling Potter down the corridor, but he waited until _his_ Potter sighed, and clenched his jaws, and thrust his shoulders back, and said "Shall we?", before he followed them towards the snake's den.

The Dark Lord was lounging on his throne, his head turned towards the wall to his right, his spidery fingers caressing the marble.

He did not react to the Death Eaters' entrance, nor to the struggling Potter, who gathered his last strength and _lunged_ towards Voldemort, his hands like claws, only to be stopped by rough grips and a punch that sent him sprawling to the ground.

When he stumbled to his feet, slowly and disoriented, his lip was split and coated in blood. It made him look strangely alive.

Only now did Voldemort lower himself to notice them.

„Harry Potter," he whispered, his face still half averted as if in disinterest, but anyone who cared to look could see the excitement in it.

"You've barely grown since we last met, I see," now he turned fully, a smile twisting his lips. "And you still believe you can avoid the unavoidable."

One finger twirled elegantly, and one of the cloaked Death Eaters kicked Potter's legs from under him. With a hiss, Potter fell to his knees, but his eyes remained fixed on the ground, refusing to meet Voldemort's red gaze. His body was thrumming with silent tension.

"Death Eater got your tongue, Potter?" Voldemort chuckled at his own joke. "Speak to me, boy. Or do you _want_ to be tortured?"

And Potter, blood dripping slowly form his split lip, raised his very green eyes to Voldemort. They shone with hate, bright as only an _Avada Kedavra_ could.

"I will kill you, you half-blood," he said. The darkness in their eyes made them equals.

Voldemort laughed and cocked his head in surprised delight.

"And still so much fire," he mused. "So much youth and confidence… let's see what we can do about that, shall we?"

Snape swallowed, his throat dry and itchy. This was not the recently resurrected Voldemort Potter had met at the end of his fourth year, nor the fighter on enemy terrain that had engaged – and nearly defeated – Dumbledore in Potter's fifth. This Voldemort was in control, his madness sharpened with purpose.

This Voldemort twitched his fingers, and Death Eaters danced to his rhythm like puppets.

Without a word being spoken, Potter's robes were removed and his body chained to an iron pole that stood lonely in the middle of the throne room. Snape hoped that Potter wouldn't notice the red splatters on the flagstones surrounding it.

The last consolation for a victim was usual the belief in the uniqueness of his situation. Potter didn't have to know that he was only the latest in a long line of entertainments. Even if, perhaps, the most anticipated.

Someone ripped Potter's shirt open, exposing white, goose bumped skin, and another Death Eater kicked his legs away so that he fell awkwardly to his knees. Potter didn't even try to get up again. One lesson learned, it seemed.

"His wand," Voldemort demanded.

One of the Death Eaters stepped forward, his head bowed respectfully, his hand offering the brother to Voldemort's wand.

Instinctually, Potter-the-boy reached out for it, his body straining to bridge the distance between him and his one weapon, only to be yanked back by his chains.

Voldemort chuckled. "A true wizard's impulse, Potter," he whispered appreciatively. "Always reaching for one's wand, for it is the only thing separating us from animals. Do you remember the first time it sang its magic for you, Potter? The sweet power running through your veins?"

He closed his eyes and hummed in satisfaction.

"I remember it as if it were yesterday," he whispered silkily. "And now I have yours to keep my own power company."

He touched the brother-wand slowly, reverently, his fingers sliding along it with relish.

Then, his eyes fell on his two followers, standing to Potter's side.

"You really should unmask, Lucius, Janus," he suggested lazily. "This is such an intimate moment for Potter. We should recognize it."

He smiled. "And after all, he won't have a chance to disclose your identities."

The Death Eaters hesitated for a moment, their eyes turning from Voldemort to Potter. Then long, carefully manicured fingers removed a mask to reveal Lucius Malfoy's steel grey eyes and smirking lips. After a second, Janus McDall followed his companion's actions.

Again, Voldemort smiled. "You see, Potter? We are all friends here. Lord Voldemort has nothing to hide."

He waited for a reaction, and Snape waited along with him, his heart in his throat. Too well did he remember Potter's defiance in their last encounters.

Potter-the-boy did not disappoint.

He glared, opened his mouth to respond, then quite obviously changed his mind and spat on the stones in front of him instead. Mild in comparison to what Snape had seen and done in this chamber, but it communicated Potter's opinion clearly.

"It seems he is not quite ready for talking yet," Voldemort commented. He gestured to Lucius and Janus. "Warm him up for me, will you?"

Potter didn't scream through the first bout of Cruciatus, nor through the second. By the third, his whole body trembled and writhed, but his jaws remained locked together.

It didn't surprise Snape, not after what he had seen over the past week, but he could feel his respect for Potter's resilience climb another notch or two.

He used the time to aim another diagnostic spell at _his_ Potter and force one of the special Pepper-Ups on him when his energy levels were too low.

But while he fussed around Potter and muttered disparaging comments about the world in general under his breath, his ears were straining for a scream, a whimper, any sound but the pained grunting that escaped Potter's lips whenever another curse hit home.

He heard nothing but the spells, he chains and the steady dripping of blood on stone.

And finally, Voldemort commanded his men to stop.

"How are you feeling, Potter?" He asked in something that would have sounded like real concern from any other person.

Potter grunted again, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the rough stones around him. Another sacrifice for the pole.

"You can try as hard as you like, Voldemort," he pressed out of lips that were bitten and bloody. "But you'll never break me!"

Voldemort just shook his head. He seemed amused.

"Potter, dearest Potter," he chuckled. "I think you still don't realize your situation here. You are in _my _stronghold. This mansion is unplottable, no portkeys can be made or transported here, and no one knows where you are. This time you won't escape or be rescued after a few rounds of the Cruciatus. This time, we have months before us – years even, if I want it so -, and soon you will beg for your death. You think you've stood up against me and were a courageous little Gryffindor, but the fact of the matter is that we haven't even started yet."

He smiled, still amused, searched Potter's face for fear and found it.

He turned away, walked slowly over to his throne of black marble, and sat with the air of someone who had all day and nothing but fun ahead of him. Snape felt dread and fear coil together in his stomach. He knew what would happen now. He knew it from a hundred meetings and a thousand broken bodies at his feet.

"Break his fingers, Lucius dear," Voldemort said lightly. "One by one. And do it slowly. I want to hear them snap."

* * *

The title of this chapter is taken from the poem "The Second Coming" by Yeats, just as the titles of 35 and 39 are.

Next chapter will be up in about a week. Now pay the evil Dark Lord by reviewing!


	38. The Unavoidable

WARNING! I'M SERIOUS ABOUT THIS ONE, GUYS, PLEASE READ IT! I know I've warned you before about certain chapters, but this is the point where it gets dark. Really, really dark, and it could trigger you in so many ways I won't even try to list them (no sexual abuse though. Although Voldemort is one weird guy). Again: This is probably the darkest thing I've ever written (and those of you reading the 'Lioness' know that really means something. Don't read it if you feel uncomfortable with violence, torture and deep mental, physical and emotional distress. If you still want to know what's going on in the coming chapters, send me a message and I'll try to produce an edited message that still gets the plot across. END OF WARNING!

* * *

**The unavoidable**

A fly was sitting idly on Potter-the-boy's forehead, cleaning its wings with the calm precision of the truly uninvolved.

Miraculously, it had chosen the last unmarred spot Potter's face had left, and the way it was just sitting there, surrounded by blood, and dirt, and bruising, made it look like the punchline to an especially cynical joke.

Potter did not shoo it away. With the wisdom of someone who'd become used to few resources, he took his rests where and when he could, and if the _where_ was chained to a pole in Voldemort's throne room, so be it.

Snape's hand itched to crush the fly, but it was as insubstantial as everything around him. He was truly powerless.

"Do you remember, Harry, when we first met?" Voldemort now asked, his voice rich and in the cultured tones of a different time. "I offered you to join me. I offered you power and freedom. I _could_ offer them again, if you asked."

Slowly, Potter's eyes cracked open. The green irises were accentuated by red now, where blood vessels had ruptured under the strain of too many curses.

"I would never join you, Voldemort," Potter spat in a voice yet untainted by screams.

There had been a few screams, but not many. Potter had held out as long as he could, and when he made any sound, it escaped through tightly clenched jaws and lips pressed together with determination.

But the Cruciatus wasn't unforgivable for nothing, and the psychological effects of seeing your hands shatter, your bones being broken and knit together again, of seeing your gaping, bleeding flesh at the mercy of the merciless, all that had destroyed older and stronger men than Potter.

And yet he'd held out.

He'd held out, and even as Snape watched the fly with growing rage and helplessness, Potter's hands, trembling, sought the iron pole, grasped the chains slung around it and pulled himself back to his feet.

The clean skin of his forehead went white with exhaustion, and his whole body shook from the after effects of the Cruciatus, but he stood, straight and in defiance.

"I'll see you dead yet, you evil bastard," he hissed through clenched teeth.

_He just won't stay down_, Snape thought in horrified admiration.

"You know nothing about evil, child," Voldemort said softly. His voice was soft now, strangely tender, an echo of the brilliant, charismatic leader that had once ensnared Snape. "You have been brainwashed, little Harry, you and all your Gryffindor friends, made to believe by that dangerous madman Dumbledore that what I want is darkness and pain. But the thing you call "evil" is so much more, Harry, _so _much more."

He rose from his throne, the fluid motion of a snake, and walked towards Potter, red eyes fixed on green.

"'Evil' is a thing of beauty, my boy. It is the manifold conquering the mundane, a slave breaking his shackles. It is freedom, the choice you never had. Wouldn't you like a choice, Harry?"

_A choice_. That had been Voldemort's offer to Snape, too, all those years ago. An alternative to the dark and dreary thing his life had been, a crossroads where before there had only ever been a one-way-street. And who could have faulted him for grasping it, after all the pain and disappointments his sorry excuse for a life had been? Who'd have thrown the first stone? Who could have gone through what he'd been through without wanting an exit, no matter the cost?

The memory Potter shook his head, decisively.

"I've seen that choice of yours, Voldemort," he said slowly, the hate almost gone from his voice. "And it isn't real. It may feel like freedom for a moment, but the feeling's fake, and in the end, it leaves you only with more pain. I don't want any part in that."

There seemed not a hint of the teenage-moodiness in him now, not a trace of that reckless aggression. Standing straight beside his pole, as if he had _chosen_ this place, not been chained to it, Potter met Voldemort's gaze freely.

"I'll never follow your path," he said.

And Snape, his head turning from one Potter to the other, from his past to his present, had to admit to himself what he'd denied, despite the past week, for more than twenty years.

Potter _was _the Chosen one, the one destined to defeat the greatest evil of his time. Not because of a prophecy or a mysterious power, but because of this simple, unwavering conviction. Even now, beaten down and chained to the iron pole, Snape could see the confidence in him. Even now, he found nothing but courage in Potter.

But Voldemort, his eyes narrowing in thoughtful contemplation of his enemy, found something else.

"You know what you are talking about, little Harry," he conceded after a moment. "And that _does _make me wonder… When did evil creep into your heart? What could have an upright Gryffindor such as you done to stand before the abyss? What did you _do_, Harry?"

And for the first time since this mockery of a conversation had begun, Potter avoided the Dark Lord's eyes.

Voldemort smiled.

"Are you ashamed of it?" He asked silkily. "Don't be, my boy, there's no reason. Come on – what did you do? There's no reason to hide anything from me, Harry. As I said – we're all friends here."

"We will _never_ be friends," Potter hissed, but it sounded defiant now, not self-assured.

"Are you so sure, Harry?" Voldemort asked silkily. "We are, after all, very much alike, you and I."

Potter's head snapped up in surprise, and Snape forgot himself and the situation enough to hiss a warning – he'd seen this too often not to recognize it immediately. But he was invisible to Potter and too late anyway – the boy's head snapped up, and Voldemort struck.

Potter groaned. He bit through his lip and convulsed in his chains, his body writhing in an effort to get away, to stop the eye contact and thus the Legilimency-attack. But Potter was no Master Occlumens, not even after all the progress they'd made in sixth year, and the Dark Lord was rested and very interested in his mind. Feverishly, Snape tried to remember what secrets Potter had known and what had been betrayed, but before he could think of a single one, Voldemort let go and Potter sagged in his chains.

"Now that _is_ interesting," Voldemort whispered. "So _you_ are the one that gave little Bella her cremation. Why, Potter, I never thought you had it in you."

There was delight in his voice, and his eyes held a new, unhealthy interest as he eyed Potter.

"What a savage thing you are underneath your righteousness, Potter," he mused.

Again, Potter attempted confidence, but this time it felt strained and fragile to Snape.

"It wasn't like that," he said. "She attacked me. I just defended myself."

"It is never _like that_, my boy," Voldemort answered softly. For a moment, his eyes were full of understanding. "It starts like defiance, like standing up to the worlds, like taking what is rightfully yours. It starts like a good thing. And, believe me, it becomes even better."

His black robes danced across his body like a living thing as the Dark Lord circled Potter.

"Did you not feel the lightness in you, Potter? Even when you wept on her broken body, did you not feel as if a weight had lifted from your shoulders?"

Potter shook his head, but he was leaning against the pole now, supporting himself heavily.

"Just for that one moment, my boy, you were free. You were what we are all _meant_ to be, not weak, spineless pacifists, but Gods among men, ready to take destiny into our own hands and squeeze it for every sweet drop."

"That isn't freedom," Potter whispered. "That's madness. It's what a monster like you would think. I _am_ free. I am human."

Still circling the boy, Voldemort chuckled, as if amused by his reticence.

"But that is what they _want_ you to believe, Harry! All these expectations, these ideals and duties, they bind you tighter than I ever could. Even if I let you leave right now, you'd never be free. You'd never see yourself for what you really are, because your mind is too clouded by what you've learned to be."

Abruptly, Voldemort ceased his pacing, and his expression became grave, almost ceremonious.

"But in the depth of your heart, you can feel the truth, my boy. It calls to you. It wants to break free."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if in reminiscence.

"I know it, because I felt the same, once. Entangled in a thousand nets, and still my true nature called out to me, commanding me to become what I truly was. And I followed the call."

He spread his arms wide. It was as if the room darkened, and Snape shivered, not knowing what he feared more: the man or the twisted truth of his words.

"I freed myself, Harry, and it brought me power greater than you can imagine. It is just one step, my boy, an easy step, and all you ever wished for will be yours. You just have to give in. I know that you want it. I can see the darkness rising in your eyes."

Helplessly, Snape turned to his Potter, who still sat at the foot of a column, very quiet and with the same unreadable expression on his face he had carried through his capture and torture.

It seemed as if he had withdrawn into the shell of his self, and there was no smile, no warmth, not even pain reaching out to Snape, as if the umbilical cord between Potter and the world had been snapped in two.

Snape remembered the man's shame in the face of Bellatrix's death, his desperate attempts to avoid reliving these moments, and he couldn't help but search for words, feeble as they were.

"Voldemort was a master player, Potter. He fooled the most brilliant minds of the wizarding world."

But Potter shook his head.

"What he said is true," he disagreed. "There _was_ darkness in me. I know it still is. You saw me kill those wizards just a few days ago, and if you'd seen me at Kinnaird's Head… Life is never black and white, Professor. That's what makes it so frightening."

"I am NOT DARK," the memory Potter now screamed, as if in defiance of his own future. "And I'll never give in, Voldemort! Never!"

"No? Are you so sure about that, Potter?"

Voldemort laughed delightedly. And he still laughed when his wand swished forward, like a darting tongue, sending a curse that broke the boy's left leg.

Potter gave a short, aborted cry, his arms tightening convulsively around the iron pole.

But somehow, with a strength no boy could possess, he remained standing.

"Remarkable," Voldemort commented, not a bit impressed. "But then challenges always brought forth the best in you, Potter. I wonder how long you'll play this game."

Another curse. Another broken leg.

Snape could here the crunching of bones rubbing against each other, he could see white shards protruding from the bloody ruin that had been Potter's right thigh. He felt slightly nauseous.

And still Potter held on, clung to the pole as if everything depended on it, though his lips were white with shock and he seemed barely conscious. But Snape had seen that part of the boy in countless situations, both real and remembered. Potter had fixed all his strength to not giving in now, and he couldn't let go, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because then, in Potter's logic, Voldemort would be right.

"Still holding up well, my boy?" The Dark Lord said cheerily, an uncanny imitation of Dumbledore's tone. "Let's up the stakes then, shall we?"

Another swirl of his wand.

Snape saw the fingers of Potter's left hand snap one by one, crash and splinter like dry twigs.

And now Potter screamed, screamed like an animal in mortal pain, like a pig being slit open. He screamed and sobbed and choked trying to breathe, babbling broken fragments of sentences through the snot and tears and blood that coated his face. He screamed like a man dying. But still he hung on.

Snape couldn't watch this. Whether he had gone soft over the years or it was the memory's atmosphere, tinged with Potter's pain and fear, he couldn't bear this anymore.

Not caring how it would look to Potter, not bothering with pretence this once, he turned away and hid his face against the smooth surface of a stone column.

How could anyone watch this?

He could only hear the Dark Lord now, his voice raised calmly over the shrieking babble that still poured forth from Potter's mouth.

"Very impressive, Harry," he said, and Snape wanted to throttle him, wanted to _Kedavra_ the whole world for doing this to Potter and to himself, but there wasn't a thing he could do, trapped in this _fucking_ memory. "But we both know that you have only one hand left now, dear boy. I wonder…"

Another swirl, another awful splintering sound that filled the room despite Potter's screams and Voldemort's voice.

"…what you'll do…"

_Snap._

"…when you're down…"

_Snap._

"…to your last finger?"

_Snap._

And Snape couldn't not watch.

He turned around, his own fingers rising to his head, burying themselves into his hair as if the counter pain could somehow make this more bearable. He turned around, just as Potter's last finger gave way and he slid down, lost contact with the pole and crashed to the ground, iron chains and broken limbs and awful, _awful_ face connecting hard with the stone.

Suddenly, it was all very quiet. The huge, dark room was filled with nothing but Voldemort's soft chuckle and Snape's own, panting breaths.

"My, my," Voldemort sounded honestly disappointed. "Look at you, Potter. Didn't you say you'd never give in?"

Potter lifted his head, barely a fraction of an inch, and stared at the Dark Lord. His eyes were the dark green of the killing curse, and his lips were red from his own blood.

"Yes, I know what you'd say," Voldemort continued. "That was hardly the gentlemanly thing to do. I realized I haven't been entirely fair, my boy, so I'll give you another chance."

His wand danced towards Potter and the boy flinched back, expecting another attack. Instead, bones righted themselves and skin was knitted back together by a ghostly hand. In less than a minute, only blood and dirt on white skin gave a hint of what had happened.

"What do you say, Potter?" Voldemort offered, his voice filled with an awful cheer. "Another chance to prove how righteous you are? That you'll never give in? Just stand up, my boy, we'll do the whole thing over again."

His voice echoed in the dark chamber, and his eyes were glowing red lights.

"Over and over again, until one of us is proven right. Who knows, Potter, perhaps you'll convince me. You'll just have to stand up again. Come on."

Potter's face twitched, and his eyes flickered across the room, searching for an escape, finding none.

"Come on!" Voldemort repeated. "Arent't you a little Gryffindor, Potter? Don't tell me that the Headmaster was wrong about you. It can't be that easy to break the Chosen One, now can it?"

One hand twitched, rose into the air, searching and yet aimless. One finger found the iron pole. Potter started to haul himself up again.

With a feeling of shame and disgust and burning, directionless anger, Snape turned his back to the boy he had once sworn to protect. He knew what his duty was – to at least witness the horror if he could not help, to stand by Potter the only way he could.

But he didn't have the strength. He couldn't even meet the eyes of _his _Potter, weary and tired and full of understanding.

He just closed his ears to the screams, not caring that he could be missing the Fading right now, not minding that he was revealing his own cowardice.

This was too much.

Only after the snaps and the pain and the blood, only after Voldemort had healed the boy again and again and offered him another go, every single time, only after an endless moment of indecision and quiet did Snape turn back around.

"No Fading," his own Potter, the patient, the man dying, confirmed quietly, but Snape couldn't find it in him to care right now.

The only thing that mattered was Potter-the-boy, eyeing the iron pole with desperation. But not trying to stand again.

He had given up.

And the Dark Lord's face was _glowing _with satisfaction as he stood before his fallen enemy and watched his weakness. How could any man, no matter how mad or evil, derive such pleasure from the suffering of a boy?

"No?" He asked, his voice soft and cultured again, and nothing left of that aggressive goading. "Ready to admit it now? It feels good to give in, doesn't it? No pain, no fear, and does it matter in the end that all your little friends would sneer at you and call you weak? You don't need friends anymore, my boy. You'll never see them again. There's only you and me, now."

Potter shivered. All defiance gone now, he buried his head in his arms and trembled wildly, trying to shut out the chamber around him just as Snape had done and failing just as badly.

For Voldemort wouldn't even grant him that small comfort.

"There's no use in hiding, Potter," he said softly. "Admit to yourself what you truly are, and how good it feels. Or do you want the pain to continue?"

Potter's shivering grew harder, but still the boy didn't raise his head. And instead of cursing him, the Dark Lord lowered himself to one knee and carefully moved the arms that he had crushed not so long ago.

"Look at me, Potter, just look at me," Voldemort whispered, his hands nearly tender as he lifted Potter's chin to meet his eyes. "Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Potter just stared at him, his face still twisted with hate, but there were also other things in his eyes now, fear, and weariness, and pain. And – barely there yet, but Snape had seen enough torture victims to notice it immediately – the wish to let go, to abandon all hope and give in. That look was the beginning of the end for every prisoner he had ever seen.

And again, Snape chastised himself for buying into Dumbledore's beliefs so easily. Potter wasn't Chosen after all, no martyr and no Christ, ready to forgive them that trespassed against him while hanging from the cross they had made.

He was just a boy, and though his tenacity and stubbornness had carried him far, they had also chipped away at his very own protections, his hopes and beliefs. His innocence.

Potter's strength was stretched too thin as it was, and it wouldn't take much to break it. He wouldn't hold out longer than any of the faceless victims before him.

_Three months_, Snape thought in disbelief, standing besides his former master and watching his saviour. _He was down here for three months and survived, and yet he is ready for the taking now, after only one night_.

And it seemed that Voldemort was seeing the same thing in Potter's eyes, for he tut-tutted with disapproval and slapped the boy's face lightly, more a reprimand than violence, and ridiculous in comparison to what had been done to him only minutes ago, but enough to make Potter flinch back in fear.

Yes. Very nearly broken.

"That is all you can take, Potter? _Harry_?" Voldemort asked, his expression still strangely caring. "I must say I am a bit disappointed. The stories they were telling about you… and now you're just a scrawny little boy."

He paused, and his hand cupped Potter's cheek, keeping his face upright. Potter trembled under his touch.

"But then I shouldn't be surprised. I made you, after all. Everything you are, all your fame and your glory, just because of me. Your one great deed, and you can't even remember it."

He chuckled bitterly, and then his tone became cold and cruel.

"Even your wand," again, Voldemort caressed the polished wood, his finger's sliding along the smooth rod. Then he lifted it to his mouth and his tongue flickered out, tasting it, licking along its length. He closed his eyes, as if to savour the sensation.

"Created to mirror my own, and tainted by the fight against me," he hissed sibilantly, strangely sensuous, and it took Snape a moment to realize that he must have slipped into Parseltongue.

"Yes, I made you Harry, all of you. It is only fitting that you should also be undone by my hand."

And raising the wand until it was positioned right in front of Potter, waiting patiently for Potter's eyes to follow the movement of the polished wood, raising the wand high, Voldemort snapped it in two.

Potter whimpered, just a tiny sound, but enough to tell Snape that the boy was lost. Tears were mixing with the blood on his face.

"You're not a wizard anymore, Harry Potter, " Voldemort whispered. "You're nothing but my plaything. And when I'll burn the world, you'll beg me to die."

* * *

A/N: Warned you. And it's gonna get worse.


	39. The Centre Cannot Hold

**The Centre Cannot Hold**

When they stepped out of the memory, Snape controlled himself long enough to lead Potter over to the sofa and into a safe sitting position, but the next moment he was in the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet and emptying his breakfast into the bowl.

There was not too much to empty, since he wisely hadn't eaten much in the first place, but he continued dry heaving for some time, his intestines doing their very best to exit his body through his mouth.

In that moment, collapsed in his own bathroom, sweating like an animal and stinking of his own vomit, Snape realized that he didn't know how to get through this whole and sane. And more that: How he could ever hope to get Potter through this.

He was the man's healer, damn it, and instead of taking care of his patient, he'd let his own needs consume him.

He hadn't looked out for the Fading, too weak to even confront what Potter had lived through. Hell and damnation, the man could be having a seizure right now, and Snape wasn't there to help.

As his old teacher used to say: That wouldn't do at all.

So he cleaned himself quickly and efficiently, willing the images of Potter's broken limbs, the images of the boy writhing on the ground and screaming for all he was worth to the back of his mind where he wouldn't have to think about them right now.

It was a technique well practiced over the years. Even if it made him feel as if he was taking the easy way.

When he'd freshened up and quickly brushed his teeth, he returned to the living room, drawing on his years of spying to create a mask of calm professionalism for himself, even though he suspected that the man wouldn't believe it a moment. Potter had a knack for seeing right through him, after all.

"Potter," he asked gruffly, trying to hide the fact that he'd just been violently ill, even though Potter had probably heard every part of it. "How are you?"

"Very glad that my fingers aren't broken, Professor," Potter answered with a twisted smile. "I had forgotten… the sheer violence of it, I guess. But there's much I have forgotten about that year. And…" he hesitated a moment, his eyes flickering to Snape and away again. "And thankful that you were the one there with me."

He swallowed, searching for words, and Snape noticed that he was moving very carefully and deliberately, as if he was afraid that those old injuries would make themselves known any minute.

"I couldn't have done that with Dumbledore standing over me, or anyone else, really. And I know that it must be awful for you to witness all that, especially considering your own history, but I do appreciate it, and I know that you will do the right thing, no matter what happens."

The words were rushing out of him now, a great torrent of worries and reassurances, and Snape felt slightly overwhelmed, wondering at the same time if this was the moment when Potter finally cracked.

"And this is probably the last time I'll be able to say this," Potter hurtled on. "Since I'm not feeling very well, and the exhaustion and pain will only get worse, and soon I won't be able to care for myself anymore, not to mention you or anybody else, but you need to remember that I trust you, absolutely, with my life, and everything you've done 'til now has only confirmed my trust, and that I _chose_ you for this, Professor. I chose _you_, not to change you or to teach you something, but because of who you are. Because you can _detach_ yourself, because you alone of all the people I know, can watch… that, and witness me die, and still keep yourself together till the right time, to do what is _necessary…"_

Potter stopped abruptly and breathed in deeply

"I survived that," he whispered, slightly desperate, as if not entirely convinced himself. "Make sure that you will, too. You're the saviour now, and you can't afford to be distracted."

He closed his mouth. The room felt empty, despite all the words that had filled it a moment ago. And Snape took a slow, labouring breath, feeling heavy and old all of a sudden.

Then he swished his wand and conjured a cup of tea.

"Stop being so disgustingly melodramatic, Potter," he ordered harshly. "And drink your tea. We need to get some liquid into you."

And Potter smiled, and thanked him with his eyes, and drank his tea. Snape had to reach out and steady his hand a few times, or it would have sloshed all over him.

* * *

Potter was a screamer. There were the screamers, and the whimperers, and the sobbers, and even some laughers, although those didn't usually last very long. There'd been a laugher once, an auror, Snape recalled, and his continuous giggling and guffawing had driven McNair so crazy that he'd…

But Potter was a screamer. Quite surprisingly, considering that he'd spent most of his life so silent and guarded, but torture gave a kind of insane freedom to some, and Potter used it amply, raging and howling and swearing, giving voice to all the thoughts locked away in his skull for too many years.

He cursed Voldemort and the Death Eaters, ("Oh Harry, you do not appreciate what we are doing for you," Voldemort said). He cursed Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall and Hogwarts ("Now that is something we entirely agree upon, dear Harry").

He raged against Gryffindor, and his friends, and the Order (but he still managed not to betray their secrets, mostly because no one bothered to _ask_ him anything, they were perfectly satisfied with making him scream).

He fouled the Dursleys' name for not killing him before he'd gone to Hogwarts, and he tore at himself for being so stupid, so damn stupid, and utterly unable to do anything but live (the Death Eaters had to restrain his hands during those hours, or he would have clawed his own face off. This was the first time that a prisoner was willing to do their job for them, they'd joked as they yanked his wrists up and hung him from the iron pole).

In the end, he cursed his mother for birthing him.

Then he went silent.

"I'd never thought I'd see it," Snape commented, trying for sarcasm, but there was an aching pain where the words were coming from. "A Potter giving up."

His Potter raised his eyes from the contemplation of his own memory-self.

"Not quite yet, Professor," he said. "Neither one of us is quite ready yet." But his eyes traced the broken ruins of his younger self with something like longing, and the stillness of their bodies seemed to wait patiently for release.

"Besides," he added after a moment filled only with curses and rough laughter and bruising, gaping flesh. "Giving in isn't always bad. It can keep you alive that much longer."

He chuckled brokenly, a parody of the full, rich sound that Snape had hated so much barely a week ago.

"Like I told you: Embracing the pain is the key. I am a champion of that specific discipline."

_So much so that you'll embrace your own death_, Snape thought bitterly.

He remembered what Shadow had said about Potter's time with Voldemort, that he had crawled inside himself like a hermit crab.

Quite an apt description, Snape admitted as he watched the process.

Potter seemed to shrink in front of his eyes, as if someone was cutting away at him from all angles.

First, he lost his voice, then his glasses and that annoying upright Gryffindro strut. His clothes went next, the last vestiges of what he'd been, and with them he lost his modesty, the reluctance to show himself naked or perform his bodily functions in front of others.

He lost his smile and his sleep, and his will to eat (of course his teeth had been gone long before, several times, actually, but Voldemort didn't employ excellent healers for nothing).

He lost the use of his hands (too many healings numbed the nerves, and you had to _work_ to keep them functional).

He lost the ability to walk or stand ("Now really, Harry," Voldemort said reproachfully when Potter just _lay_ there, unable to move on his own. "A little effort, or we'll stop healing your leg and _force_ you to stand on them").

He lost his words, and his dreams, and his hopes.

He lost what Harry Potter had been, and everything that he might have been in a future that had become distant, hazy and unreal even to Snape, who had witnessed it first hand.

As he followed Potter down the spiral of slow disintegration, fighting with everything he had to stay detached, useful, to do what Potter and everyone else trusted him to do, Snape felt the reality of the world outside his quarters slip away.

They had their meals delivered to them, and Snape insisted on regular breaks to give _his_ Potter a chance to rest and gather his strength, but with the hours and days advancing, Voldemort's dungeons became more real to him than anything else in his life, while Potter slipped away and became more of a shadow every day.

He was doing a little better than his counterpart in the memories, at least, but that was small consolation to Snape, who forced potion after potion down his patient's throat but still lost the race against his illness.

And Potter simply gave himself over to the powers that now determined his fate, didn't complain, took everything that was given to him and even tried to sleep though nightmares attacked him as soon as he closed his eyes.

He made very sure to thank Snape, as often as he could, and when he lay on the sofa, always cold and paler every day, he looked so very close to death that Snape wanted to shout at him, wanted to provoke him into showing a bit of spirit, a bit of resistance.

But if the memories had showed him anything, it was that Potter knew how to survive adverse situations better than anyone else. If this was the only way he could manage, Snape would be damned to shake him out of it.

Still it ate at him, the way both Potters were dissolving in front of him, and not a damn thing to do against it. He could not step in and halt the torture, shield that small and meagre body against the ceaseless pain. He could not stop the Fading's progress either, only build barricades against it with potions and spells and his own, unbroken will.

Not enough. Nothing was enough.

And Potter knew it. Every single gesture spoke of this knowledge, and his every word spoke of the inevitable. He was forgiving Snape even before his failure, and that forgiveness somehow hurt worse than anything else during these hellish days.

Snape vaguely remembered that there had been a time, not many days ago, when he had agreed to help Potter let go of his soul. It had been a logical decision at the time, the only thing he could do if he wanted to respect Potter's independence and rights.

But Snape was beyond logic now.

He had _seen_ now, was seeing what had been done to this man every minute of every day, for even when they were taking a break from the endless memories of torture he was seeing it, even when he was sitting in his chair in his living room, watching Potter sleep he was listening to his screams.

He had _seen_ all that had been taken away from him. And he would not let it happen again, not as long as he had something left to fight it.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Snape realized his own strength. For the first time, he saw his own determination and will, forged through years of servitude and silent waiting, understood how the constant fear and worry had created a patience not many men could match.

For the very first time, Snape found within himself the decision to fight against all odds. He had taken on Voldemort for this man, long before he had even liked the boy. He had fought the great Albus Dumbledore over this man's soul.

And he'd be damned if he was beaten by a mere, stupid illness when nothing before had been able to kill Potter. He'd be damned if he failed.

His hand would never finish what an army of Death Eaters had failed to accomplish.

So he would not let Potter die. Never. Not even if he begged for it.


	40. Sailing to Byzantium

**A/N**: Just a small note concerning the average intelligence of most of the teachers in this story: A few people have pointed out critically that my portrayal of Dumbledore, McGonagall, Tonks etc. is pretty negative, and that they'd never be so stupid. I agree that I'm rather playing the black-and-white card in this aspect of the story, but if one takes a look at Rowling's depiction of the teachers' actions, 'stupid' is not exactly an unfitting description. Just one example: McGonagall states in the very prologue what she thinks of Harry's relatives, and yet she never checks for the boy nor even questions him after she becomes his head of house. During the phases of the following books in which Harry is pretty much mistreated by everyone around him (second year, fourth year, fifth year), she never even bothers to talk privately to him, which to my mind would be the duty of every even remotely competent teacher in such a situation. Instead, she leaves a student that would be her responsibility to the machinations of Albus Dumbledore, who did, in fact, train Harry Potter in the art of self-sacrifice to prepare his willing death in Book Seven. That's canon, people. My teachers are not that much worse…

0o0

Sailing to Byzantium

"You have to get out of this room, Master Snape," Shadow said calmly, touching Snape's elbow, and Snape raised his head in tired irritation. He wasn't even awake enough to fall out of his chair.

"My work is here," he answered curtly, his eyes darting towards his patient for the thousandth time today.

To call the state Potter was in now 'sleep' would have been flattery. He was lying flat on his back, one arm stretched out by his side, one dangling from the cot that Snape had transfigured from his couch. His breath was shallow and slow, only visible because Potter was so painfully thin. Snape had tried to remedy that again and again, but even nutritional potions didn't help anymore. The Fading was eating him from within, and there wasn't a damn thing Snape could do.

"No one could question your devotion to your work," Shadow said, and Snape twitched in surprise. He'd almost forgotten the other man's presence.

Ignoring that the Prince of Vampires was standing by his side because he was too tired and worried. Pathetic. But Snape couldn't even bring himself to feel embarrassment.

"Then leave me to it," he said, not bothering to grumble. After a life of constant anger and irritation, Snape had very few feelings left in the face of Potter's dying.

"No."

Before Snape had even time to realize what was happening, Shadow had taken hold of him and lifted him from his chair as if he were a little boy. Hands too quick to see, not to mention avoid, were straightening his clothes, and suddenly Snape was standing upright close to his chamber door, robes without wrinkle and as presentable as he'd been for days.

Shadow was opening the door for him, standing still and waiting expectantly like the parody of an old fashioned valet.

"I can't simply leave him here on his own," Snape protested. He saw little use in protesting against his mistreatment by the vampire's hands, and against his own will he caught himself feeling for his little tattoo. Shadow had been so _quick_.

Shadow smiled thinly.

"I would never expect you to," he answered simply, opened the door fully and gestured for a middle aged man, a druid judged by his attire, to enter Snape's private quarters.

Brilliant. Not only was the vampire constantly inviting himself into Snape's rooms, now he was bringing along guests.

But before Snape could ignite this spark of resentment to a full blown rebellion against Shadow's manhandling, Shadow bowed to the druid, took Snape's elbow, and practically dragged him into the corridor.

"This is Eldridge," he told Snape. "He is a renowned Healer among the druids and has been acquainted with everything that is known about the Fading. He will keep both eyes on Harry while we talk. He is also in possession of a portkey that the old woman created. Should something happen to Harry, you will know it immediately and can use a portkey to return here. So do not worry, Master Snape. All has been taken care of."

Still, Snape hesitated. He would be damned if he lost Potter to an incompetent idiot after all he'd done. He didn't _trust_ Healers. They always took themselves too seriously, thinking they were Galen's gift to humanity. This man might well decide to tackle Potter's problems on his own, and then it would be too late…

Shadow seemed to follow his thought process. He leaned forward, all smooth lines and sharp teeth, and addressed both Snape and the Healer.

"Ayda spoke to him," he said silkily. "Extensively. And I believe he knows how displeased my vampires would be if he didn't follow my orders _in minutiae_. Healer Eldridge knows where his duties lie."

Snape met the man's eyes, saw the fear in them, and agreed. Healer Eldridge was obviously too terrified not to follow his orders. He looked just like a Hufflepuff after his first lesson in Potions.

"Very well," he agreed, too tired to continue the argument. "Lay on then, MacDuff."

Shadow sent him a darkly amused, Eldridge a disbelieving and very impressed look, and they were on their way.

It took Snape most of the way up to the Headmaster's office to clear his head and realize that he had once again been manoeuvred around by Potter's insufferable friends. The thought angered him, and _that_ felt surprisingly good.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember when he'd last been really, truly, righteously angry. The effect was refreshing, and while he contemplated the irritatingly smooth movements and gestures of Shadow, who was walking in front of him, he wondered if the medicinal benefits of anger might be used for a potion.

It was a much more pleasant topic for thoughts than the dying Potter in his chambers.

They reached the open entrance to the Headmaster's office and walked up the stairs. The gargoyle had refused his services since Dumbledore had been 'deposed', and Snape couldn't help but notice that the scowl on its face looked even more sullen than usual.

But that thought was driven from his head, along with all others, when he reached the office and was confronted with its new setup.

For a moment, he thought that he had gone mad. It seemed like the only logical conclusion, for how could Dumbledore's office have turned into _this_?

The desk had been pushed to one side and the room enlarged to leave space for a circle of chairs that were held by old women and bearded men, clothed in long white robes, by young and lethal looking vampires in black clothes of various styles and by Tonks, Pomona Sprout and Minerva, all three looking motley and rather mundane in comparison to the other groups. To their right, four centaurs stood, silent and solemn, closing the circle and towering over the others.

_It looks like the freaking Council of Elrond_, Snape thought disbelievingly and had to suppress hysterical laughter.

"Finally," Ayda complained from her place in the circle, her grubby looks contrasting sharply with the dignified men and women around her. "And let me say that you're looking just like one of Shadow's less attractive vampires, Master Potions Master. Regular walks in the sunshine can help with that, you know?"

The first impression of dignity and elegance evaporated. The vampires looked slightly affronted, and Minerva's lips thinned in preparation for a reprimand. Snape sat down without answering, and for a moment he wondered whether to be irritated that his usual role of sarcastic troublemaker would be taken by Ayda tonight. Then he decided that he was too tired to play for such an illustrious audience, anyway, and thankfully leaned back against the chairs back rest.

Being Potter's healer was hard enough. No one could expect witticisms on top of that.

Ayda seemed to realize that he wouldn't buy into their usual double act tonight, for something in her face changed and she turned towards Shadow.

"Took you long enough," she said. "Got lost in the dungeons, eh? Or did you snack on Eldridge, on the way?"

Shadow stiffened slightly, and his mien became even more majestic.

"Do you not think that we have more important business than that, woman?" He asked sharply, but words would never hurt Ayda. Snape very much doubted that even stick and stones could. Or battle axes, for that.

"Right ho, then," she said enthusiastically, in such a ghastly imitation of good breeding that Shadow's right eyelid actually twitched.

The solemn druids to her right and left didn't bat an eye, though, and Snape really wondered just _why_ they had chosen her as a leader (except for the knife part. But could you really build a government on the ability to efficiently cut throats?).

Realizing that his thoughts had begun to drift off, Snape sat straighter and forced himself to concentrate. He was bone tired, more exhausted than he could ever remember, but he'd be damned if he let it show. Keeping up appearances had always been the key to his survival, and as soon as Potter (_died_) **was healed**, there would be a whole new can of worms waiting to be opened. As things stood, he didn't even know whether he would have a job to return to a week from now.

"We have called this council," Ayda continued. "To determine the future actions of our alliance. For the moment, all is quiet on the Hogwarts front, and the council of teachers has agreed to continued cooperation."

She jabbed her chin at Tonks, whose hair immediately changed to a meek brown, to Pomona, who nodded easily, and to Minerva, whose whole body _oozed_ disapproval. Cooperation looked different, Snape thought, at least where the Assistant Headmistress was concerned.

"So at the moment everything's stable," Ayda said. "What we have to discuss now is what to do once Harry's dead."

Shadow at Snape's side stiffened even more.

"The course of the future is not yet determined," he said gravely, and Snape saw vampires, centaurs, and even a few druids nod their agreement.

"By all means, keep your rose tinted glasses, vampire," Ayda said coolly. "But we'll have to move quickly when he dies, and…"

"Or the stars might not take him and we can gaze in quiet retrospection to receive their will," Chairon announced, and all the centaurs threw back their heads in agreement. It seemed that no one was ready to share Ayda's pessimistic outlook.

She however simply pursed her lips.

"Oh come on, you people," she complained. "I'm not trying to ruin your party, but it's necessary to face the facts. We need to determine when to pull out, how to control the information flow, and, most important, how to prevent Voldemort from returning if the brat doesn't get through his memories in time. He's already dying…"

"He is _not _dying," Snape said, punctuating every word and articulating clearly. Everyone in the room heard what he didn't say: _I won't let him_.

And Ayda paused. She seemed to take a good look at Snape, even leaning forward in her chair to study him.

"And you will vouch for that?" She asked quietly, all of her attitude gone. "You will bear the consequences if you happen to be wrong?"

And Snape thought of the potion vial with its accompanying spell that he was carrying around at all times. He thought about the promise he had given, about killing Potter. He thought about destroying a soul forever.

"Yes," he said, his voice strong despite the exhaustion. "Voldemort will never rise again. I will see to that."

Still Ayda's eyes studied him, old, without mercy and an understanding that frightened Snape and soothed him at the same time. She nodded.

"Very well," she said. "Then we will take your word for it. You are, after all, the one Harry chose for this task."

"A choice favoured by the stars," Charon said, and to Snape's surprise, most of those sitting in the circle nodded, even those he didn't know.

_Next, the damned vampires will start hugging me,_ he thought with unease.

For a moment, the council seemed ready to break up and resume the day, but then Minerva broke in, her lips even thinner and her face strangely eager.

"However, there are still important things we need to discuss," she announced. "A school doesn't run itself, and with all the extra occupants, things are a mess. We need to organize a few things, if nothing else."

Ayda rolled her eyes – what _was_ it with these two? – but she and the rest of the group settled back into their chairs.

Snape wasn't ashamed to admit that he dozed off while the others discussed provisions, meal times and cleaning duties for the provisional stables the centaurs used (the house elves had refused to come near the centaurs for an odd reason Snape didn't care to understand). His usual role during staff meetings was to be as unhelpful as possible and throw in a few sarcastic remarks now and then. Since Ayda was filling that slot rather nicely, Snape didn't see the use of listening to the nagging and bickering. Vampires especially could be surprisingly irritating, considering that they had no use for normal human facilities.

Therefore the sound of hurrying steps on the stairs and the door bursting open roused him rather more violently than if he had paid attention, and it took him a moment to understand what the newly arrived druids were babbling about.

Then he jumped from his chair, adrenaline replacing the exhaustion with a nice, buzzing feeling. He would pay for that later, a distant part of his mind commented, but most of his mind was occupied with the news.

"How the hell could Dumbledore escape?" He shouted, activated the portkey back to his chambers Shadow had given him and found with a sinking feeling that it didn't work, then rounded on Ayda. "Didn't you place guards on him, you old coot?"

Ayda's eyes snapped to him, then in rapid succession to Shadow, Chairon and one of her druids.

"You centaurs check the ground and first floor, druids the rest of the castle. We will take the vampires to the dungeons. Quick, now!"

There was nothing batty or eccentric in her voice now, only power and direction and a terrible, terrible anger, and Snape finally understood why even Shadow respected the woman, irritation or not.

But he didn't care about that right now, nor about the shocked faces of his fellow teachers. There was an urgency in his mind that he remembered from the war, the desperate need to move as fast as possible, to _get things done_.

Because he didn't need Ayda's commands to tell him that Dumbledore would most likely head to the dungeons, and he didn't need the lethal speed of the vampires to realize that they might very well be too late.

Potter was in the dungeons. Protected only by two vampires and a druid, and those wouldn't be a match to Albus Dumbledore on a bad day. And Potter could barely stand upright by now…

_I swear, if the old man kills my patient, I will gut him myself!_

Shadow had vanished in a blur of motion as soon as Ayda had finished, having probably already reached Snape's chambers before they had managed to descend the office-staircase. But Snape wasn't sure if speed would help the Prince, for this was Albus Dumbledore, who had warded Hogwarts against Voldemort during the war, had warded the castle so thoroughly that no Death Eater had ever managed to enter it, and if Snape wasn't completely wrong, he'd had help.

"We will have words about this, Minerva," he growled towards his colleague, who was hastening along with them. "And if I find that you were involved in this…"

"Oh, stuff it, Severus," Minerva hissed. "Just because you are friends with all sorts of unsavoury people now doesn't mean that I can't give you a tongue wagging. _You _created this problem by opening Hogwarts to strangers, not I. We could have found a solution among ourselves just as we always did, instead of involving vampires and… and druids. _You_ blew this situation out of proportion, not I."

Snape stared at her.

"You didn't forget the little detail about Voldemort returning, did you?" He asked while they descended the great staircase. "How could I blow that out of proportion, even if I tried?"

Minerva tut-tutted, but she sounded slightly out of breath and the effect was more like that of a wheezing engine.

"That's not what I'm talking about, Severus, and you know it very well. I never doubted that the situation was serious, but to _imprison_ the Headmaster? All he wanted was to spend a little time with Harry, to make sure that his favourite student was alright. You have no idea how much he loves the boy, and how he missed him over the years. All he wanted was to talk to him, to bury the past and re-connect. Albus is the greatest wizard of this and the last century – is it really too much to ask if it gives him his peace of mind?"

Despite the hurry the were in, Snape stopped in mid-stride and whirled towards her. He couldn't believe what he heard, he just couldn't believe it.

Unbidden, images rose before his inner eye – Lily's face, white as a corpse's, the small and dirty cupboard Potter had called his home, the Chamber of Secrets and Voldemort and the blood and dirt and stink of the torture chamber. He thought about Potter holding on to his life with fingernails and teeth, fading away day by day, both in this life and the terrible world of his memories, and he wanted to take Minerva by the throat and throttle her.

"He is _dying_, Minerva," he hissed instead, wishing that words were arrows and could pierce through her thick armour of righteousness. "His body is failing him bit by bit, and instead of resting, he has to confront the most painful memories of his life, and all you care for is _Dumbledore's_ peace of mind?"

Some part of her determination faded, but she held onto it with Gryffindor stubbornness.

"You said that he wasn't dying," she disagreed. "Just a few minutes ago."

And Snape took a deep breath, closing his eyes and willing the fury to back down. He turned away from her, brushed his black robes into place and resumed the hurried walk to the dungeons. She kept pace with him, her expression still inquisitive.

"I lied," he said shortly, and all the lies he had seen this past week echoed through his mind. "I lied, because if I give him up, I need to prepare for destroying his soul, and whatever you think of me, Minerva, you can't expect me to see forward to that."

She had the impertinence to rest a soothing hand on his arm.

"It won't come to that," she said consolingly. "Perhaps Albus will…"

All the fury snapped back into him with the force of a thunderstorm.

"_Albus_ will not help with this," he thundered. "_Albus _will only make things worse, because he cannot comprehend that Potter is more than his eager puppet. No lemon drop in the world can ever make this right, and if you'd seen the things I've seen, you wouldn't trust _Albus_ in a ten-mile-radius around the man! How can you be so blind, Minerva?"

She actually opened her mouth to answer, but then they reached the entrance to Snape's chambers and the scene they met thankfully took her words away.

His door had burst from his hinges and was lying half way across the corridor. Two vampires were lining the threshold; Snape couldn't see whether they were unconscious or dead, and the druid Eldrige had collapsed not far from them, his staff still clenched in his hands.

Five druids were busy at work countering the wards that surrounded Snape's living room layer after layer. Without even raising his wand for a diagnostic charm, Snape knew that they wouldn't succeed, not in time.

He focused on Shadow and saw that the Prince of all vampires was busy with the wards as well, slicing through them one at a time. 'Slicing' in the literal sense of the word.

He had a silver knife in his hand, artfully ornamented and obviously very old and powerful, Shadow's expression showed deep concentration and a lot of pain, and as Snape watched the vampire's hand reaching through the wards, burning and bleeding and healing at the same time, Snape realized that only the vampire's sheer power and age protected him from combusting right on the spot. He was risking his unlife, his very existence to get to Potter, but he was still too slow.

For Dumbledore had already reached the dying man. He was sitting on a chair by his bed, with his back to the door and thus to them, and was talking earnestly. Potter was listening. His skin was grey with exhaustion.

Only when Snape saw Minerva's face pale and heard her shocked gasp did he realize that she hadn't seen Potter once since Ayda and the others had invaded the castle. He had kept Potter in his chamber for days now, and the only guests had been Shadow, Ayda and now and then Chairon. Minerva really hadn't had the slightest idea how bad things were standing with her former pupil.

Potter had half drawn himself up from his lying position on the couch, and his elbows were trembling. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips tinged blue. He looked almost translucent, and when he opened his mouth to talk, the dry skin of his face wrinkled like that of an old man.

But although his lips formed words, and Snape strained to listen, all remained quiet. Dumbledore had been here long enough to add a silence ward to the package, and Snape once again glared at Minerva.

He didn't care that she looked as contrite as he had ever seen her, now, or that her eyes were glistening unnaturally. He didn't care that she turned to him beseechingly, all of her righteousness gone.

"I didn't know," she whispered.

"You just had to listen to me, woman," Snape hissed. "You just had to use your head. But instead of thinking for yourself every once, you caused _this_. His death will be on your shoulders, and so will the death of his soul."

Minerva shuddered, and for a moment Snape worried that she would actually break down in front of him. Well, he'd be damned before he began consoling crying females. Having to heal Potter was quite enough.

But then she caught herself, nodded once, and whipped out her wand.

"I know these wards nearly as well as he does," she said, control snapping back into place. "Let me see what I can do."

Though the silence wards inside his chambers still held, isolating the rooms against outwards sound, the wards against listening fell first, fat lot of good that was. Now they would have to listen to Dumbledore while countering his deeds, and if that wasn't a cheering thought.

Still, Snape leaned forward slightly, trying to catch as much of the conversation as possible, if only to gauge the effect it would have on Potter.

"I only did it for the greater good, my boy. It was necessary," Dumbledore was saying, no, arguing, and Snape realized that he must have arrived even sooner than they had thought. No way to tell how weak Potter was already, then, he thought grimly. And of course the infuriating man was discussing morals with the Headmaster instead of concentrating on keeping his strength!

"But what is this greater good if not the protection of innocent children, Professor?" Potter asked, and despite all Snape was relieved to hear him speak, tired and croaking, but very much alive. "What value does peace have if it is built on such a sacrifice?"

"This peace was not built on sacrifice," Dumbledore disagreed in the tone that had convinced countless wizards and witches over the years, in the tone of the leader of a light. "It was built on faith, on my faith in you, dear boy. I _knew_ you could do it, if given the strength you needed."

"But I didn't do it, Professor," Potter whispered. "I couldn't. I wasn't ready, and if you'd listened to me once, if you'd _once_ talked to me and told me the truth, you'd have known that. Instead, you let them walk to their slaughter without a chance to understand what you were asking of them. You let them die _blind_!"

"I let them die loved and loving," the Headmaster disagreed, but he sounded not so sure anymore. "And I hoped they would be safe."

"They were brutally murdered, Professor," Potter's quiet, exhausted voice said. Snape didn't know what the man was talking about, and right now he didn't care. He wasn't supposed to talk at all! He should be resting in preparation for the next set of memories. But Potter talked on, tired, balancing on the edge between the last drops of his strength and the abyss. And still the barrier was humming, separating them.

"He was tortured and sliced open like a fish," Potter now said, his voice terribly resigned. "And he never understood what was happening to him, because _you_ had promised him something, and the great Albus Dumbledore could never be wrong."

Through the shining blue hum of the secondary barrier, Snape could see the white haired head of the Headmaster sink, as if suddenly laden with a terrible weight.

"And not only did you not take their death on your shoulders, Headmaster. You gave _me_ the responsibility. As long as I live, their blood will be on my hands because I couldn't save them. It took me years just to _live_ with that thought, not to mention be whole again. That isn't a legacy anyone deserves, not even I."

There was a long silence, broken only by the humming of the wards and Shadow's hisses of pain. Snape couldn't see what the Headmaster was thinking or doing. He only saw how Potter trembled and weakened before his eyes, and he was frantic with worry now.

"Harry, my boy," someone then said, and the voice was so changed, so broken, that it took Snape a moment that to realize that it was Albus Dumbledore, great wizard of the light, who was speaking. "I don't know how to say how sorry I am."

Potter did not accept the apology, but something softened around his eyes, and the paper-like lips seemed less thin.

"I have already forgiven you," he said quietly. "And there's no way to change the past. But as my friend Ayda would put it: You need to put your money where your mouth is, Headmaster."

A snorting sound to Snape's left alerted him to the position of said friend, and Potter's eyes darted into the same direction. He very nearly smiled.

"And the first step would be to let them in," he added. "We have quite an audience, you know?"

Dumbledore's head turned towards them, then, and his frailty was a shock to Snape.

_He knows what he's done, now_, he couldn't help thinking. _ I didn't expect it to hit him so hard_.

Dumbledore waved his wand, the wards collapsed and vampires, druids and teachers rushed into the room. Snape was by Potter's side in an instance, checking his vital signs and summoning more strengthening potions that the man could possibly consume, but he still spared a look at the defeated form of his Headmaster, who was escorted off by Minerva, three druids and a dozen angry looking vampires.

For the first time since Snape had known him, Albus Dumbledore looked like a man without hope, like a sinner who could never been forgiven. The past was a burden that could break every back.

As if feeling Snape's eyes on his back, Dumbledore once more turned around. His eyes searched for Snape's and met them, only to dart away again in obvious turmoil. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his tired gaze touched Potter and the dying candle of his life force.

He nodded once, if in acceptance or resignation Snape couldn't say, then gave a curious little half-bow.

"You save him, Severus," he said quietly. "Do what I couldn't. Please."

And turning back around to Shadow, Dumbledore withdrew his wand and offered it to the Prince of Vampires.

"I assure you that I will fully cooperate from now on," he said, and left the room.

_After this, nothing will shock me ever again_, Snape thought grimly, his eyes resting on Dumbledore's bowed back, then on Potter's worn and fading smile.

But he was utterly wrong, or rather foolish enough to believe that there couldn't be worse things than shock and surprise waiting in Potter's mind. And so he was wholly unprepared when, two days later and nine weeks after Potter had been captured in his memory time, they entered a moment very different from the usual torture.

It was the most terrifying thing Snape had ever seen.

* * *

A/N: Back again after too long an absence. It's as if every time I have everything under control, fate comes back around and kicks me in the unmentionables. Suffice it to say that my husband is very, very ill, and I have no idea how much time I will have over the coming months. Forgive, but take my update as a sign of good will. This story will be finished, some day. I'm sorry.

The title of this chapter refers to a poem by Yeats, by the way. Here are the relevant stanzas:

THAT is no country for old men. The young  
In one another's arms, birds in the trees  
- Those dying generations - at their song,  
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,  
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long  
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.  
Caught in that sensual music all neglect  
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,  
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless  
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing  
For every tatter in its mortal dress,  
Nor is there singing school but studying  
Monuments of its own magnificence;  
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come  
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire  
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,  
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,  
And be the singing-masters of my soul.  
Consume my heart away; sick with desire  
And fastened to a dying animal  
It knows not what it is; and gather me  
Into the artifice of eternity...


	41. A Little Red Eyed Peter Pan

A/N: Pretty exhausted, but I was on a roll there. And considering the cliffhanger of the last chapter, I thought you'd like me to get this up as quickly as possible.

I've a confession to make, people. I've no idea if English children are actually still learning Shakespeare by heart in school. But in my rose-tinted view of the world, they are. So forgive me if Harry seems a bit more erudite in this one than he probably is. If it irritates you, just tell yourself that Hermione made him learn it. That one's probably true.

Oh, and by the way: I'M WARNING YOU AGAIN! THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER IS AS DARK AS IT GETS. NOT SO MUCH WITH PHYSICAL TORTURE, BUT WITH EMOTIONAL STUFF. THERE IS LESS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE THAN IN 38. BUT STILL, IT'S CREEPING _ME_ OUT, AND I WROTE IT (_BAD_ BRAIN, _BAD _BRAIN).

* * *

**A Little Red Eyed Peter Pan**

„_All children, except one, grow up."_

„_So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!"_

_From: Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie_

* * *

Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, lay on his back, dark blue shadows marking the outline of his ribs, the thin arms and legs, the sunken eye sockets.

He wasn't moving, not even twitching with the after effects of too many Crucioes. He looked almost peaceful, at least if one disregarded the mangled state of his body, the bruises, fading and new, or the not quite right angels where his bones hadn't grown together correctly.

He was naked, but no one in the room cared about that, least of all Potter himself.

It looked just like the beginning of another torture session, and Snape readied himself for that, but suddenly _his_ Potter reached out and grabbed his arm, pressed it tight with the surprising and sudden strength of the very sick.

He had sunk to the ground as soon as they had fully entered the memory, just as he usually did these days, but now he was standing again, though trembling with effort.

"I remember this," he whispered, his eyes wide. "It's a good memory, Professor! An important one. You need to watch this closely!"

"And you need to sit down, Potter," answered Snape, who very much doubted that anything good could have happened to Potter in this room.

"Come over here." He led Potter to a corner of the throne room, helped him lower himself to the ground and carefully wrapped a blanket around him. He'd turned into quite a nurse this past week – keeping Potter warm and hydrated and as painless as possible had become a fulltime job.

"Are you comfortable, Potter?" he asked, only to experience the supremely unpleasant experience of having his words overlap with those of his former master.

"Harry Potter, can you hear me?" Voldemort asked from where he lounged on his throne, his skin sickly white against the marble, and his amusement palpable.

Potter didn't give the slightest reaction he had heard, and Voldemort's amusement deepened.

"Oh come now, Harry, I know you're still alive," he said jovially. "Speak to me, oh Chosen One!"

Still no reaction.

"What do you think, Harry," Voldemort now mused. "Are your little friends still crying their eyes out for you, or have they moved on with life already? It's been two months, after all. As Hamlet's uncle said so fittingly: "to persever / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness". Now if there's one thing my followers lack, it's a good grounding in the muggle classics."

He paused, and leaned forward conspiratorially, as if to prevent his guards from hearing him.

"Now Shakespeare, that's a muggle I wouldn't have killed… quickly."

He chuckled, and Snape shuddered violently. In all his time serving him, he'd never seen the madman so playful, so jovial. He was glad he hadn't – he seemed even more terrifying when amused.

"And what about you, Harry?" He now asked. "Did those muggle relatives beat the classics into you? The warden at my orphanage certainly did. We were called up in front of all the children and had to recite Shakespeare, and if we weren't word perfect, he used to give us a good thrashing. Oh, such a thrashing as you've never seen."

He chuckled again, though the hand he rested his chin on seemed a bit unsteady. "I swear, he would have made an excellent Death Eater if not for his dirty blood," he said, his eyes looking into the far away. "I let it all drain from his body, slowly, before I killed him."

Suddenly, his eyes snapped back to the present, and his voice grew hard again.

"Still got nothing to talk, Harry? You're beginning to bore me, and you know what happens when I'm bored, don't you, Potter?"

Finally, Potter opened his eyes. They were still unusually green, but there was little of Lily left in them. Little that was human, in fact.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, just let me die."

"Oh, but I can't Harry," Voldemort said apologetically. "That's not part of the game, remember? Would you like to have a lemon drop instead?"

With the abandon of a very small child, Potter began to cry, great, gulping sobs that knew no dignity, no restrain and no relief. They were probably a purely physical reaction, Snape judged, brought on by the sheer exhaustion of the boy's body.

But still it was painful to see Potter reduced to this, a fearful child, stretched out on the floor passively, without even the will to move.

Voldemort, on the other hand, watched him with relish.

"But there's no reason to cry, Harry," he said jovially. "If only you were a good boy, we could leave all this behind and be the best of friends. Would you like that, Harry? Being friends again?"

Potter choked on his tears, babbling strings of words that made no sense to Snape, 'nos' and 'yes's' and 'please, Uncle Vernons' as if having lost any sense of reality. Deep, wracking coughs interrupted him, shaking his body violently, but still he rambled on, and Voldemort just sat on his throne, letting the mad jumble drift past him as he watched his prey, ripe for the taking.

"Do try to make sense, Harry," he finally reprimanded when the boy showed no sign of stopping. "Or I'll have it beaten into you."

Potter's body froze with fear. Even the crying stopped in mid-sob, and Snape understood with a sinking heart that all defiance, all pride had been brainwashed out of Potter. He was not much more than a dog now, wanting to please his master and suffering when he failed.

"Why?" He finally managed to whisper, snot, tears and blood running down his face and coating his chin. He was past humiliation now, and perhaps it was a miracle that he was even speaking.

"Why what, my boy?" Voldemort asked lazily. "You really need to work on your language, I must tell you. When I was your age, I was expected to articulate perfectly."

"Why are you… _doing_ this to me? Why are you keeping me alive?"

Suddenly brimming with energy, Voldemort leaned forward on his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, as if he was watching something of special interest.

"But I told you, Harry," he said softly. "I'm doing this for _you_. I'm doing it to free you, to help you realize your potential. I can't help it if you are a bad, stubborn boy. When all is said and done, you will thank me for this, believe me."

Potter whimpered. His one good hand crawled towards his face, rubbing at it angrily, scraping away dirt and mucus, rubbing until the skin was as red as the blood trickling from it.

"I'm… I'm…"

"You are obstinate, that is what you are, Potter. I am asking so little of you," Voldemort's voice sounded stern now. "Look at the effort I've made, and you're not even _trying_."

"But I don't know how," Potter whimpered. "I'm trying to… I'm _trying_… but…"

"No, you are NOT trying," Voldemort suddenly thundered, and Potter flinched violently, as if the words were a whip and the pain just around the corner. "You are whimpering and grovelling like an animal! You are weak, and pathetic, and you disgust me. I had high hopes for you, Harry, but now you can't even finish a sentence. Is it any wonder that I am so disappointed in you?"

Disappointed? Snape stared at his former Master in silent amazement. He had seen this side of Voldemort before, during the memories of Potter's captivity. Voldemort could behave surprisingly amiable towards Potter when the fancy struck him. Sometimes, he would lecture him on the history and pronunciation of the curses memory-Potter was being subjected to, sometimes he would paint pictures of a future under his command in glowing words.

He never called the torture by its name, terming it 'punishment' or a lesson instead. But until now, Snape had been too absorbed in caring for one Potter and watching the other to wonder about the system behind Voldemort's madness.

What was he trying to do to the boy, he now wondered as he listened to their interaction. Was he trying to _teach_ him something? Was he trying to mould Potter into a Death Eater?

If that was his plan, Snape could understand his irritation as well as the glint in his eyes. But why wasn't he cultivating aggression in Potter, then, instead of this disgusting eagerness?

Potter was crying again, this time the silent tears of his childhood.

"What do you want me to do?" He mouthed, nearly inaudible, but the echoing stones of the throne room carried his words to his watchers from the present and the future.

"You know that very well," Voldemort answered, but his voice softened somewhat, now that the last glimpses of resistance were broken. "A good boy asks only for what he can get. Now tell me again, Harry: What do you want?"

"I want… I want…" The mere thought of imagining a want seemed too much for Potter. As his mind struggled, his eyes were darting across the throne room without taking it in, searching for something, anything he could ask for without being punished.

"Yes, Harry, tell me what you want."

Potter's face grew more panicked, the movement of his eyes more frantic. He seemed unable to comprehend what was asked of him, and the thought of angering the Dark Lord frightened him to death. But suddenly his face cleared, and he whispered one single word, tinged with longing.

"…water…?"

Voldemort's lips parted. His tongue flickered out to taste the air.

"Yes," he whispered in the sibilant tones of parseltongue, the language only he and Potter could speak in all the word. "That is a good request, my boy. I will give you water."

Potter's breath hitched, Snape couldn't say if from relief or fear. When Voldemort suddenly rose from his throne and walked over to him, however, relief turned to panic and he curled himself up into a foetal position, desperately trying to protect his body from what he expected to come.

But Voldemort just chuckled softly.

"None of that, my boy," he hissed. "I will not hurt you, Harry. Didn't I promise? I will give you what you need instead. You must be so thirsty, poor boy."

Potter's lips opened, a crack in summer-dried earth.

"… yesss…" he hissed, following Voldemort into their very own language.

Voldemort's chuckle deepened.

"Such a good boy," he said. "Here, let me help you…"

He conjured a silver goblet, decorated with writhing snakes, and carefully placed it close to Potter's head. Potter twitched towards it, but he was obviously too weak to even lift his head.

Then, there was the unbelievable, right in front of his eyes, and even while he watched it, Snape wondered whether he'd been lost in a nightmare of his own making, brought on by the stress of the past days.

For this couldn't be happening. The Dark Lord _couldn't _be lowering himself to the floor, black robes spreading wide like a blanket, and lift Potter's frail body up, lift him tenderly, until the boy came to rest against his chest, head lolling to one side.

It couldn't be! And yet it was.

His grey, scaly hands were gentle as they raised the boy's head, tucked him carefully in the crook of his shoulder. And his eyes… there were feelings there that his red snake-eyes had never been made for, longing, and obsession, and…

Snape shuddered, and turned his eyes towards the Potter of his time.

"What the hell is going on, Potter?" He demanded harshly. "Why is Voldemort treating you as if you were the prodigal son?"

Potter-the-man looked at him seriously, his eyes wide and shining in his grey face.

"Because I am," he said softly. "Because he wants me to be it, so very much – a companion, a student, a son. He wanted so much from me."

"Does this taste good, Harry?" Voldemort now asked, and the memory Potter gave a pathetic, pleading whimper and raised his hand feebly towards the cup.

"Do you want more?" As if of its own accord, Voldemort's left hand rose and caressed Potter's cheek. His glowing eyes were fixed on his mortal enemy as if he was the only other wizard left in his world.

"Please," Potter whispered in the voice of a small child. "Please."

"Drink. Yes, that's good, Harry. You are a very good boy, and as long as you are good, you will lack nothing. Whatever you need, my boy, I will give it to you. I will clothe you and feed you, and all you have to do is ask. I will care for you like that old fool never could."

And Potter-the-boys hand reached out to grip the black material of Voldemort's robe, to grip it as strongly as his weakened fingers could, and to bury his face in the embrace of his tormentor.

"I only want the pain to stop," he whispered. "I want to be good! I don't… I can't do it anymore, please!"

Voldemort raised his hand and cradled Potter's head, drawing him more closely to his own body.

"I know," he whispered back, still in the sibilant tones of Parseltongue. "We have endured so much, you and I, so much pain and loneliness. But it will all stop now, pet. I will make it stop, and you will never have to be alone again. All you need to be is good, my good, obedient boy. Will you do that? Will you be my good little boy?"

Again, Snape shuddered. He could see it now, with one Potter dying his by his side and another lost in the Dark Lord's arms, could see how this fragile life had been crushed between the schemes of two great and terrible wizards, between the awful mercy of a Dumbledore and the merciless obsession of a Voldemort.

How could this one boy stand against two wizards who had toyed with the world and burnt it to ashes? How could he keep his sanity with two such powers reaching for his mind, twisting and moulding it? Potter had never had a chance, Snape realized, sick to his stomach, he'd never had the freedom to rise beyond their manipulations and illusions. Who could fault him for giving up now, for breaking and collapsing into the arms of darkness, when all the light side had ever done was drive him into them?

But still, he couldn't help mourning for the mind that had been lost, mourning and wondering in a distant part of his mind however Ayda and Shadow could have brought the boy back from this oblivion and turned him into a person again.

"I am sorry," he heard himself whisper, and felt the emotion echo in his body. There was, indeed, much to be sorry for – all the many ways they had failed Potter. But his patient just shook his head, still filled with that feverish excitement.

"No, this isn't it, Professor. Wait for it, listen to me!"

Now seriously worried, Snape turned fully towards his Potter. The man had been worried about viewing these memories again – what if they had overwhelmed him in his weakened state?

"What…" he began, only to be interrupted by the memory.

"Would you be happy, then?" The voice was so totally unexpected that it took Snape a moment to realize Potter had spoken, his voice hoarse from all the shouting and crying, but with an honest, strangely detached interest, even though he was still cradled in the arms of the Dark Lord.

It seemed that Voldemort had similar problems of processing.

"What did you say, pet?" He asked, the tenderness still very present in his voice, but with a wary edge.

Slowly, the boy's fist unclenched and released the Dark Lord's robes. Slowly, his face lifted from the embrace until his green eyes met the glowing red ones. There was something new in his face, something like… understanding.

"Would you be happy if I was 'a good boy'?" Potter repeated, still in a broken whisper but growing stronger before Snape's very eyes. He paused, as if truly waiting for Voldemort to answer, and Snape found that he was holding his breath for the boy's next words. Just a moment ago, Snape had given up on memory-Potter altogether, and now this… whatever the hell _this_ was.

"'Cause that's what you've been waiting for isn't it?" Potter continued, still gazing into Voldemort's eyes with an almost dreamy expression. "All the time. You didn't ask me questions, and you didn't try to kill me, but you wanted something, and I think I figured it out now."

Snape felt his hands tremble and his throat close at the sound of that voice, so familiar in its hoarse pain, but yet there was something new to it. Something like triumph.

Voldemort heard it, too, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Enough of this nonsense, pet," he said sharply. "Or there will be no more water for you."

Potter-the-boy half closed his eyes for a moment, an expression of deep concentration on his face, as if he was almost tasting the words. Then, he shook his head with as much decisiveness as he could manage in his weakened state.

"No, I don't think so," he said. I think that there will always be more water."

He paused, clearly thinking hard.

"'Cause you need me alive. You need me…" A cough interrupted him, shaking his frail body, but it couldn't stop the thought that had taken hold of him.

"You need me to beg for mercy so that you can give it to me," he continued, his voice rising with the excitement of this thought, rising to something like confidence. "You need to save me, 'cause you could never save yourself."

His red eyes glowing with anger, the Dark Lord reached out and struck Potter, slapped him with an open hand. It was a gesture so without authority, so utterly muggle, that Snape stared at him with open shock.

"I forbade you to speak like this," Voldemort growled.

And the unbelievable happened.

Potter looked up to the Dark Lord, green eyes meeting red, and he smiled.

"Stopping me won't make it go away, Tom," he whispered.

Voldemort's hand, extended to deliver another slap, went limp and fell back into his lap.

"Don't call me that," he whispered.

"But you called me Harry," Potter whispered back. "And you made me your equal, long ago. We should always have someone who uses our real name, don't you think? We all need that."

"I don't need _anything_," Voldemort was trembling now.

"Are you sure?" Potter asked. "What did you keep me alive for, then?"

He waited for an answer and got none.

"What did you kill my relatives for, then, as soon as you found out how they treated me?"

Silence.

"Why did you break me? Why did you try to make me thankful? Why did you try to make me _love_ you?"

As total as the silence had been, as sudden was the Dark Lord's anger. Voldemort growled deep in his throat, like an animal of prey, and pushed Potter away with all his strength. He was on his feet and pacing before Potter's pliant body had slithered to a halt on the marble floor.

"How _dare_ you," he growled. "How dare you talk to me like this? I am the Dark Lord Voldemort! I have powers you can't even imagine! I conquered death!"

And Potter chuckled brokenly.

"No one conquers death, Tom," he said. "But some are very good at hiding from it, for a while."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT!" Voldemort raged, his hands twitching as if he was yearning for his wand. But Potter just calmly shook his head.

"There's no reason to be afraid of dying, Tom," he said softly.

"I am NOT AFRAID! And I will NEVER DIE!"

"Oh grow up, Tom," Potter whispered, something like actual sadness in his eyes. "We're all afraid of something. And, since you asked: ‚all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity'."

Speechlessly, Snape turned from the memory-Potter to the real one. This couldn't be! The boy had been broken! There'd been nothing left of him, and yet here he was, bandying words with Voldemort!

He turned to his Potter and saw pride glowing in his eyes, saw his whole face illuminated with satisfaction, with a knowledge Snape couldn't name.

"Good boy," the real Potter murmured. "You figured it out. Finally."

He noticed Snape's stare, and a smile bloomed on his face, full of beauty and life, oddly out of place on this dying man.

"I may be slow," he whispered. "But I always figure it out in the end. This is it, Professor, did you listen?"

Snape nodded, a sharp up and down of his head, and turned back to the memory.

„_I realized that, deep down, Voldemort was nothing but a poor, twisted boy that had never known a home," _Potter had told him the night after they had first met shadow, barely a week and still a lifetime ago. _„I discovered Tom Riddle. A human being, so much like me, whom I couldn't hate. I understood him too well. So I stopped hating him."_

"Why is he talking back to me?" Voldemort now demanded, whirling around to the two Death Eaters in attendance, as if Potter's sudden change in behaviour had been their fault. "You have not worked him hard enough!"

From somewhere, Potter-the-boy took the strength to chuckle once more.

"As you said yourself, Tom," he whispered. "I am not an animal. You've broken me and I still won't follow you. You'll never train me now. Just give up."

The Dark Lord's roar of anger seemed to shake the foundations of his throne room. But it was nothing when compared to the quiet knowledge in Potter's eyes.

"I want you to break him!" Voldemort screamed, wand pointing at Potter's chest and eyes flickering wildly through the room. "I want you to slash and tear and rip him until there's not a spark left of his mind! Do it!"

As curses washed over the memory-Potter's body, rocking him back and forth, painting him all the colours of pain, Potter-the-man slowly drew himself to his feet.

"They couldn't break me," he whispered, his eyes still filled with tired pride. "For I was broken already. Again, Voldemort miscalculated. He wanted to make me his own, but he didn't understand that the freedom he promised me can be used both ways. He made me see myself, but he never realized that I would see _him_, too."

Snape fervently hoped that the awe he felt for Potter-the-boy didn't show on his face.

"But how could you…" he said, not knowing himself what he meant.

Potter fixed his eyes on his past self, and serenity echoed between two sets of green eyes.

"Death and pain are only a threshold," he whispered. "We are on the other side now. There's nothing to fear, here. Only understanding."

Understanding did not spare the boy. Under the Dark Lord's command, first two, then four and finally seven Death Eaters tried to cut into Potter's new clarity with their curses. And he cried, and moaned, and bled, but not once did he close his eyes or turn his head away from the Dark Lord, who sat on his dark throne, watching for signs of the thing he had tried to make.

It was in vain. Curses rained, but whenever he had them stopped and asked Potter if he had enough, if he would be a good boy now, Potter would shake his head, and call him Tom in quiet reproach, as if he was just waiting for him to quit his temper tantrum and grow up.

And Voldemort, his red eyes soft and frightened and disbelieving like those of a little child whose favourite dog had bitten him, flinched away from that look, as if there was something in it he had to fear, something that reminded him of the boy he had once been. No longer powerful despite the wands he commanded, no longer in control of everything.

And when the curses finally stopped, the last hopes of turning Potter abandoned because even the Death Eaters feared for his life, Snape's Potter slowly made his way over to the man who had tortured him for months. He was more stumbling than walking, but his hands were steady as they ghosted over the Dark Lord's bald head and his slitted nose.

"We all die," he whispered softly, cupping Voldemort's ghastly face in his hands tenderly. "Only you were too afraid to face it. And now look what you've done!"

His eyes travelled across the room slowly, resting on blood and dirt and tears, on broken hopes and bitten lips. His eyes were unbearably sad, and somehow Snape knew that he was seeing not only this throne room, but his own past, present and future, his parents and those who had died in the war, and perhaps, just perhaps, he was also seeing Snape, who stood in the shadows and watched him silently, a terrible aching pulsing through his body.

"All your dreams forgotten," his Potter whispered. "All your plans forsaken. You brought no change. Only ruin. Look what you've done! If only you'd been braver, Tom."

* * *

„to persever / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness" Shakespeare, Hamlet Act I, Scene II

„all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity." Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene II

* * *

A/N: This was one of the hardest things I've ever written. This scene has been in my head pretty much since the beginning of the story, and I was terribly afraid of writing it down, because it could so easily go wrong. I'd be glad if you reviewed and told me how it turned out.


	42. An Explanation

A/N: This is not a chapter, but a stub I'll leave here because I don't want to lose all your wonderful reviews. Just click right on to the new chapter!


	43. Footfalls

AN:  Dearest readers, at long last here's the update I've been promising for quite some time. The story is almost finished and only needs a bit of betaing, so you can expect regular updates at least once a week until it is done. A betae'd version of "Had I Known" will soon be updated to my archiveofourown-account (penname: kayly_silverstorm), so that you can read it in a cleared-up version and download it in pdf or epub-format.

I hope you'll enjoy the ending of this tale both long in itself and in the making. Thank you for your patience, your understanding and support.

* * *

Footfalls

"If your people want to bid farewell of him," Snape announced, and it was perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever said, "You'd better do it soon."

The reactions to this announcement were as different as the people gathered in the Headmaster's office. Shadow went entirely still, the lines of his face turning to stone. Chairon drew himself up to stand very straight, as if saluting a passing comrade in arms. And Ayda put the latest volume of Dumbledore's diaries down and met Snape's eyes without hesitation.

"How much longer?" she asked.

Snape's body ached, and the uncomfortable position that he had taken for this floo call did hell to his back.

"I cannot say," he answered. "Anyone else would have given in already. But this is Potter we're talking about."

His mind flashed back to the incredible things he had seen in Potter's memories, not two days ago, to the boy that had been broken and somehow made himself whole again.

"It could be days," he offered. "Or hours. At one point, his body will simply give in."

Ayda shared a glance with her companions, then nodded to show she had understood. "We'll be there soon," she said, her usual straightforwardness strangely subdued. "And we'll work out a rota so that not too many people will visit him at the same time."

From somewhere inside him Snape took the strength to sneer.

"It would be quite fitting if he died from being suffocated in vampire embraces," he sniffed, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Shadow and a cackle from Ayda.

"That's it, Master Snape," the old woman said. "Keep up the spirit."

Without another word, Snape closed the connection and withdrew from the fireplace.

_Yes_, he thought to himself, _I'll keep up the spirit right until the wake_.

"Your insufferable friends will be down here shortly, Potter," he then announced for the benefit of his patient, who was dozing on the transfigured couch. Potter had been unable to find any real sleep for the past days, but still Snape insisted that he rest as much as possible, and Potter was complying with the easy passivity that extended to all aspects of his helplessness.

"Thank you, Professor," he simply said, and Snape read in his eyes that he understood the meaning of this visit.

"We have nearly reached the end now," he then said, giving no sign what he was talking about – his memories, the invasion of Hogwarts, or his own life. Perhaps all three were fast becoming the same to him.

Snape nodded and settled down in his armchair to wait.

Since he had witnessed Potter's breakdown and reawakening in Voldemort's arms, the atmosphere between them had yet again changed. Snape no longer felt the need to question Potter and his attitude. He no longer felt the need to understand him, now that he had seen, and had realized that the changes wrought in Potter had occurred on a level inaccessible to him, for reasons he could never hope to emulate. In a way, Snape was even glad that he didn't understand Potter, couldn't ever fully understand him, because he now knew what his serenity had cost him. What he understood was enough for him.

The vampires were the first to arrive – of course they were, being imbued with inhuman speed and all that. And, of course, they didn't bother knocking. When had they ever?

Snape did not move from his chair as they filled the room, gravitating around exhausted, emaciated Potter on his transfigured bed, but he didn't take his eyes off them. He shared a succinct nod with Shadow, who had taken position close to Potter's head and was watching his vampires just as carefully. No matter the alternatives, Potter would never want to be turned, and Shadow would respect that, whatever some of his followers might think.

It was exhausting business, this leave taking. The vampires kept touching Potter, whispering to him, caressing him with quick, cold hands. No one wanted to say goodbye, because it might be final. No one wanted to leave Potter, because they might never see him again.

Snape watched them as they mingled, feeling envious in a way he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was the fact that they _could_ make it final if they wanted to. It was their decision to take that step, and say goodbye, and leave.

Snape could never do that. He would stay by Potter's side, waiting and fighting until the man's body finally gave in, and even then it would never be over. Some part of him would forever be wondering, revising his decisions, planning for a different solution. He knew his own, obsessive ways too well to doubt that.

No matter the outcome, these weeks with Potter would stay with him and leave him a changed man. And some part of him, smaller as it might become over the years, would always be sitting here, in this chair, listening to the ragged breathing of the Boy Who Lived.

Watching him die.

The vampires left, apart from Shadow, and the room fell into silence. Potter closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep, but one of his hands, white and thin and without strength, slowly reached out and curled its fingers into Shadow's cloak.

The Prince of Vampires looked down at his young adoptive son, and his face was without expression. He took the hand and cradled it in his own, one long, elegant thumb stroking the papery skin slowly, in the rhythm of a mournful song.

They stayed like that for a long time, with Snape watching silently, feeling like a voyeur and yet unwilling to leave Potter alone. Bad things had happened the last time he'd done that.

Then, three centaurs arrived, led by Chairon, and Shadow leaned forward and whispered something into Potter's ear. Snape couldn't make out the words, but he saw the smile they coaxed onto Potter's face, a soft, tender thing, full of fragile beauty.

Potter opened his hand. Shadow let go of it, stood absolutely still for a moment, his head still bowed, then melted into the shadows that were cast by the fire crackling in Snape's hearth.

Snape did not doubt that he was still here, close to Potter, standing guard and yet leaving room for other leave takings. The thought of an unseen vampire lurking in his chambers should have terrified or at least irritated Snape, but to his own disgust he found strength in it, relief, as if Shadow's invisible hand had lifted some of the burdens from his shoulders.

There were worse brothers-in-arms than the Prince of vampires.

The centaurs brought with them the smell of incense, the chants of a frankly weird ritual, and half-hearted congratulations on Potter's return to the stars that no one, least of all they themselves, seemed to believe. Even for irritating sphinxish half-horses, this death couldn't seem joyful.

Potter received their blessings quietly, respectfully, giving no hint of what he thought.

Did he share their beliefs? Snape wondered suddenly. He'd never wasted much thought on religion, especially not on the weirder ones out there, but Potter had immersed himself in cultures that were fundamentally different from the wizarding one, had shown unusual acceptance of the druids' and the vampires' ways. Was this why he let go so easily, without regret? A belief in reincarnation, in the consolation of these rituals?

But no. Snape had witnessed much of Potter's life now, and if anything, the man put his faith in people, not tenets. He'd seen too much to trust in sayings and eternal promises and that 'true home in the stars' the centaurs were now blabbering about.

But why was he listening to it, then? To console the centaurs? What a ridiculous idea.

Snape's gaze cut through the room and its occupants, landing on Potter's earnest, serious face, trying to gauge his thoughts just as Potter looked up from his folded hands.

Through the crowded room, their eyes met.

Snape opened his mouth to offer a scathing remark about such Neoplatonic humbug, then closed it again, ashamed, leaving the words unsaid. This was Potter's last meeting with his friends – he didn't need Snape's commentary on it.

But Potter raised an eyebrow, and smirked, mischief dancing across his face, and Snape knew that the other man knew what he'd thought, and was wickedly amused by the inappropriateness of it.

_We forget that they're still like us, the dying, _he thought absently. _They don't really change. We just expect them to._

And for a moment, the axis of his world tilted and he thought he saw life the way Potter did – not as a task to be finished, a goal to be reached, a tyranny to rebel again, but as a natural progression of steps towards the inevitable.

Detachment slid into his mind. No, not detachment, _acceptance_, something dangerously close to Potter's serenity that left him calm and yet strangely light-headed, and he thought, for a moment, that he understood…

Potter smiled, his eyes still locked with Snape's, and the bittersweetness of the moment seemed suspended between them, shutting out those bustling through the room, paling colours and muting sounds until all the life drifting around them seemed but a layer of oil spread thin over the stillness of their now.

Then Potter broke the connection and looked up to Chairon, turned on the threshold between the here and there as if simply looking back into a room he had not quite left yet.

"What about our bond, Fighter?" he asked. "This is probably the last chance to safely break it."

Chairon shook his head with exasperation, but his eyes were sharp and wise as they lay on Potter.

"Do not worry yourself needlessly, Eques," he admonished. "It is well in hand. Preparations are being made, and our earthly existence will be safe."

In any other situation, Potter would have argued, then, but he lacked the strength for his customary irritating behaviour now, and as he sank back into his cushions, his expression was one of relief.

"Take care of them, and of yourself," he said quietly. "Guard the herds well."

Chairon lowered his head.

"I always will, and in doing so honour your memory, Eques. Perhaps, in time, your soul shall ride with us again."

And as little as Snape thought about the centaurs' faith, he couldn't help admit that there were worse wishes to be made.

* * *

As if that moment of understanding had dragged him down into exhaustion (or maybe it had given him enough consolation to relax somewhat, but Snape would never admit to that thought), Snape found his attention drifting, spinning away from this room and the present, safe in the knowledge that Potter's state was closely monitored by charms and by Shadow's watchful eyes.

He wasn't aware that he'd fallen asleep, but when he came to with a jolt, he found that the fire had almost died down, that the centaurs had left and the druids taken their place. It wasn't exactly an improvement, as far as he was concerned, but at least the smell of incense had decreased somewhat.

His first look was towards Potter, but the man was still sitting upright in his bed, supported by a plethora of cushions and surrounded by a group of female druids that looked a good deal less mad and more motherly than Ayda.

Then the smell of strong black tea wafted over to him, and in his half-awake state, Snape reached for its source blindly. Only when his hand touched something icy and hard, shaped like a hand yet textured like marble, did he realize that tea didn't simply appear out of the blue.

He turned his head and met the eyes of Shadow. Who was calmly handing him a cup of said freshly brewed tea.

There was so much wrong with that moment that Snape didn't even bother to think about it. Instead, he sipped his tea with relish, ignored the way it burned his lips and tongue, and gave his best attempt at a sardonic smirk. It worked a bit better after his nap, but still wasn't up to his usual standards.

Still. A man had to keep trying.

"I see Potter's influence extends even to household chores," he commented instead of thanking Shadow. Because he could. If he hadn't earned the right to banter with a vampire, then the past weeks clearly hadn't been worth it.

Shadow smirked back. His teeth were showing, and Snape hastily concentrated on his hot beverage again. Better not to overdo it, really.

"You have only been asleep for two hours," Shadow offered quietly, and the way he _didn't_ say anything else was one of the more impressive things Snape had seen in the realms of snark. "The centaurs have said their goodbyes and the druids should be ready to take their leave soon, too."

The smirk vanished, leaving the usual expression of quiet majesty that passed for Shadow's resting face.

Snape gave a curt nod. Shadow echoed it, then glanced down at the tea in silent admonishment, and Snape couldn't quite exorcise the feeling of irritated fondness from his mind. Perhaps that was the thing that had surprised him most about Potter and his friends these past weeks - that there was no need to make nice with them, to spin words or justify his methods.

They got things done, just as he did, and in the end, not much needed to be said.

Then Shadow's eyes darkened, and something like pain crept into the smooth, perfect features. Snape turned around and saw that almost all of the druids had indeed said their goodbyes and vanished without much fanfare. Only three were left in the room apart from Ayda - a young woman, a middle-aged man and a girl that Snape suspected to be Catherine from the stubborn tilt of her chin. She looked like the kind of girl that would decide to marry Harry Potter, and boss him around while she was at it.

For a moment, Snape thought of bushy hair and a lecturing voice and smirked again, but then he concentrated on the final two occupants of the room.

Potter and Ayda, locked in an embrace that seemed more painful than tender.

"You're an idiot, Harry," Ayda said fiercely. Snape couldn't see her face, as she was turned away from him, but she sounded just like herself, tough and matter-of-fact, ready to brandish a knife or steal a jar of jam at an instant's notice. "Too stupid for this world. I really wonder why I bothered ever getting to know you."

"I know, Ayda", Potter whispered back, as untouched by her insults as ever. His eyes were closed, leaving his face thin and white and almost lifeless, and his hands were resting weakly on the old woman's back. "I love you, too. And I'm not afraid."

"You should be," she growled, but there was something else in her voice, too, something Snape couldn't name. "But you never learned how to act like a sane person."

Slowly, Potter patted her back. His face held the serene, accepting look Snape had hated so much in the beginning.

"Don't mourn for me," Potter whispered. "I would have died eight years ago, Ayda. Everything since then has been a gift from you and Shadow."

"I would never mourn for a fool of a stubborn wizard," Ayda growled, but when she finally released him, and straightened, and turned towards Snape and the door, her face was wet and her eyes reddened.

Potter however was still smiling.

"I hope so," he called after her. "We'll meet in the beyond, grandmother."

Ayda didn't react. She didn't even turn to look at Potter as she stepped through the door, but for the first time, she looked every single one of her years.

* * *

"I don't want to go," Potter said, looking at both Shadow and Snape with something close to desperation.

Shadow's continued presence in his quarters hadn't been discussed, but it seemed it would be a fixture from now on, whether to guarantee their security from the rather desperate vampires or because Shadow simply couldn't bring himself to leave Potter, Snape didn't know. He thought it wiser not to ask, not that it mattered anyway. There was nothing Snape could do about it, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't really mind.

Snape could see Shadow's face soften in reaction to Potter's words, and realized that the vampire had misunderstood them for a declaration concerning his death instead of the obstinate refusal it was. What had Potter said? That Shadow went all Dickens on him as soon as he scraped his knee? He knew Potter well enough by know to assume that he wouldn't be above using that for his own purposes, should the need arise.

"Don't be ridiculous," he therefore snapped, meaning Potter as much as Shadow. "This is the only way to treat you, and we will _not_ let you die just because you don't want to face your memories again."

The softness fled from the vampire's face like a small furry animal that had just realized whose cave it had wandered into.

"I agree," Shadow said. "Listen to your healer. You _will _do this, Harry."

But all the conviction and power in his words was wasted on Potter, who was shaking his head wildly, his eyes not filled with any fear that would have been expected with a man on the threshold of the undiscovered country, but with terror of something far worse, something he knew intimately and feared only more for its familiarity.

After all they had seen these past days, all they had witnessed, now, finally Potter had reached his limit. Snape couldn't help but be surprised that the man should have enough strength to rebel left in him.

"I can't," Potter whispered feverishly. "I know what happens next, and I can't see it again! I won't!" He looked up at Snape with a strangely childish expression.

"You can't make me," he whispered, and it was stubbornness and horror and a desperate plea at the same time.

Snape groaned, trying to stay calm though he desperately wanted to bash his head against the edge of his fireplace.

He didn't need this. Not when their time was running out as it was, not ever, and especially not now that he felt something akin to sympathy in the face of Potter's fear.

Snape didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to be the one that would place the last straw to break his back.

But what else was there to do?

"There is no other way, Potter," he therefore said, congratulating himself on remaining calm and reasonable. He was setting new records of patience, here. "It's just one step into the pensieve, and then you can close your eyes and ignore everything. I need you in there to detect the Fading's symptoms - you know that."

But Potter didn't budge.

"No," he whispered. He would have shouted it but for the lack of strength.

"Yes," Snape answered. "I am your healer and you will do as I say. This is our only option."

The determination in Potter's eyes didn't change.

"You could kill me," he said, sounding hopeful.

Snape went cold all over. There it was again, that course of action he had sworn not to take and yet promised to, that possible future that was entangled in a hundred threads of hopes and fears and necessities.

He wouldn't do it, Snape had promised that to himself, and he believed in that promise as much as he had it in him to believe in anything. He would believe in it right up until he broke it to save their world.

They had been calling him a traitor for nigh on thirty years by now. But this would be the first time that he'd have to betray himself.

But before he could form words from these thoughts (and he would never do that, anyway, because no matter how well Potter knew him by now, it wasn't in Snape's nature to open his heart wide for every passing spectator to gaze and giggle at it), before he could even think of an appropriate (or inappropriate) response, Shadow reached out and placed a hand on Potter's shoulder.

"You would ask this of him, Harry?" He asked the young man he'd saved. There was no censure in his words, no reproach, but a terrible weight of meaning. "You, who know better than most how the burden of death can crush a good man, you would ask your friend to kill you? Needlessly? Because you cannot bear to face your past?"

Snape wanted to protest these words, because he wasn't his friend, damn it, because he saw what they were doing to Potter, and because this was the coward's way out, guilting Potter into continuing what he considered unbearable, and what right did they have to ask that of him?

But he kept silent. He was still Slytherin enough to realize that siding with Potter now would seal the other man's death, and that the outcome of this was more important than using just and proper means.

But when Potter's eyes flinched away from them both, and his hands clenched, clutching his blankets in trembling fists, and he nodded silently, a broken, brittle gesture... Snape wished he had spoken.

For a moment.

* * *

"Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future

And time future contained in time past.

If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction

Remaining a perpetual possibility

Only in a world of speculation.

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden.

My words echo

Thus, in your mind."

_T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets_


	44. Up in the Sunshine

**Up in the Sunshine**

After all that had happened here, everything he'd witnessed, the sight of Voldemort's throne room could not faze Snape anymore. He just grunted, resigned in the face of its well-known horror, and carefully lowered Potter to the ground so that he could lean against a marble column not too far from the iron pole to which his memory counterpart was chained.

He whipped out several blankets from the large bag he was carrying, doing his best to envelop Potter in a cocoon of warmth that might keep his temperature somewhat steady. This was followed by a row of potions bottles he carefully placed next to Potter, instructing the man - as always - to take one if he felt even the slightest change in his condition.

And here the easy routine of many days changed. Potter did not smile at him, did not thank him. Did not, in fact, even bother to meet his gaze or give any sign of reassurance. His eyes remained fixed on Voldemort, and his face was hard now, the brittle harshness of thin ice.

_You will not apologize_, Snape told himself firmly. _Nothing at all is helped by an apology. You forced him into this, and you will bear that responsibility, not try and make excuses he'll have to accept._

"Comfortable?" he asked instead, holding onto his clinical detachment with everything he had.

Potter sent him a short look of disbelief, but before it could turn into reproach he looked away again, once more fixing his eyes on the Dark Lord.

Who was looking satisfied, for the first time in a month of memories. Snape's heart sank.

"Potter," Voldemort spat, and the word was a curse and a longing at the same time. "Since I have not been satisfied with the progress you made these past weeks, we will try something new today. Aren't you looking forward to that?"

The memory-Potter remained quiet, not in the way he had before, when he was too exhausted, too broken to speak, had perhaps even forgotten what words were for. This silence was one of resigned superiority, and his blood shot eyes rested on Voldemort with nothing but tired reproach.

"Not going to answer me, Potter? Has your muddy little well of wit finally run dry?"

Voldemort was sprawled out in his black throne, one bony-white hand splayed on the armrest, the very picture of a king. But his left eye was twitching, and the sibilants in his voice were sharp today, like snakes hissing from a hidden darkness, wanting out. He was on the edge of control.

Potter sighed, then grimaced as the rips in his bitten lips broke open and began to bleed again.

"You know this won't work, Tom," he said quietly. "It never does."

Voldemort's hand clenched into a fist, but his lips stretched wide, exposing sharp teeth, and Snape could feel the older Potter tense by his side, shifting his weight in sudden anxiety.

Snape would not have needed that tell. He knew this smile. He'd feared it for years.

"Oh, but are you really that sure of yourself, Potter?" Voldemort whispered. "You have shown remarkable resilience, I'll grant you that, and your stubbornness may be well matched to my own will. But we have only just begun. What will happen if we add something to this equation, hmm? Something more to wager with than just your life? Something you hold dearer than your continued existence?"

The younger Potter's face was the shadow of a living thing.

"It's a bit late for that, Tom. Now that you've taken everything already."

"Oh no, my dear boy," Voldemort's smile stretched wider, slipping into savagery and out again on the other side. "Not _everything._"

Three things happened simultaneously, then. The younger Potter stiffened, as wary as his weakened state allowed him to be. The older Potter jerked, his hands grabbing the column he had settled against, as if trying to haul himself up and flee this place, but the gesture was aborted, its uselessness realized before it could be completed.

And, on the other side of the throne room, black doors where thrown open wide, their clanging a dark echo in the cavernous room, and in marched two Death Eaters with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger held firm their grip.

Snape sighed, but he wasn't surprised. In all their time together, the only thing that had ever gotten a genuine reaction out of Potter was the mentioning of his friends. The only thing that still seemed to possess the strength to wound him was their deaths. So when Potter had refused to continue the treatment for the first time since they had begun, Snape had known what would be waiting for them in the mists of the past.

But sometimes it didn't help to know one had been right. Sometimes that just served to make things more miserable.

The younger Potter looked slack-jawed, an expression Snape hadn't seen on his face for many a memory now. His whispered denial was drowned by Weasley, who espied his friend, reared up against his captors with a shout and was rewarded with a harsh punch to his face that left him sagging in the Death Eaters' floating spell.

"Harry!" Granger cried out, high and shrill and painfully untainted in this of all places.

Snape's Potter moaned, his fingers grappling on the stone floor, searching for escape, an anchor, anything.

Memory-Potter's eyes widened in horror.

"No," he whispered. "No."

But he did not answer his friend, did not outwardly react to their presence. Instead, he turned his head to the Dark Lord, to the only power that mattered in this room.

"Don't do this, Tom," he said. "Don't. This is between us."

Voldemort smiled, his lips razor sharp.

"You had your chance to ask for favours, Potter," he said. "It's too late now. Now that I have found you lacking, I will test the mettle of your friends instead."

Granger cried out again when she and Weasley were chained roughly to conjured poles similar to Potter's – close enough to their friend that they could almost reach one another. Almost.

"Harry," she whispered, in her face the horror of finding her friend so different after only a few weeks. Through her eyes, Snape could see the changes in Potter-the-boy anew, changes he had almost become used to, parallel as they were to his diminished condition in the now.

His clothes only a few tattered rags, and he not shy about showing his body, perhaps not even noticing anymore. His skin a mottled chaos of blue, greens and reds, like a painter's discarded palette, crusted with dirt. His arms stick-thin and chained above his head. His legs crooked, his hands useless, his mouth parched like a desiccated field.

His eyes weighed down with a knowledge that would forever set him apart.

Granger was crying over the shell of a boy that had once been her friend. And Voldemort was following the trail of her tears with his greedy eyes, gaze flickering between her and Potter, back and forth, drinking in a pain that Potter had unlearned to express.

"Harry. What _happened_ to you?"

That was, perhaps, the stupidest question Snape had ever heard her ask. But she had no idea how easily a human being could be broken, could have no idea, and in a better world, she would have never found out.

"Yes, Harry," Voldemort cut in, his sibilant voice sickly sweet. "What _did_ happen? Do you want to tell your little friends all about your journey of discovery? Where should we start? With your pleas for mercy? With your prostration before my throne? Or perhaps with the way you clawed my dear Bella to death in your aberration?"

Memory-Potter sighed. After that first unguarded reaction, his eyes had not strayed from Voldemort. Even now, with Granger whispering his name and Weasley moaning with returning consciousness, even now his eyes were fixed on Voldemort, and Snape understood that he was trying to protect his friends by ignoring them, by downplaying their importance and giving Voldemort what the Dark Lord longed for – his undivided attention.

But Snape also knew that it was a useless effort. Nothing would change the outcome of this, no distraction and no plea. Weasley and Granger were already burnt flesh. And Potter, his eyes fixed on Voldemort's dark delight, seemed to realize the same thing.

His face twisted. His head sank, and his body hunched in on itself as far as it could, given the chains that bound it.

"This won't work anymore, Tom," he said quietly, as if it was a regrettable fact of nature. "I won't play this game with you. You've broken my legs too often and in too many ways."

He looked up, his eyes flickering towards his friends with a shadow of regret, then back to the Dark Lord. Who hissed at him, never more like the giant snake that he resembled than in this moment.

"So sure, Potter," the words barely understandable, balancing on the very edge between Parseltongue and human. "So assertive. But there is another kind of destruction we have not explored yet, the sweet, blazing agony of another's pain, and I will fill you to the brink with it. I am not interested in breaking _your_ legs anymore."

Potter opened his mouth to argue, to engage Voldemort in discussion and thus delay the fate of his friends, but Voldemort flicked his wand at him in a lazy _Silencio_, as if to show that he had no interest in the other's words, no interest at all.

But his eyes were not on Weasley and Granger when he gestured for his minions to begin, and he did not condescend to cast the spells on them himself.

Instead, he watched Potter. Watched him flinch at every spell, every scream, every droplet of blood. Watched him grind his teeth in helpless anger, watched his silent yelling as he pleaded with Voldemort. Watched him rip at his chains in vain, rebelling against his fate for the first time in a month, but not to get away this time, not to flee, but to help his friends. In vain.

Granger and Weasley were certainly less resilient than Potter, Snape noted clinically. Their pain left him almost untouched, small and inconsequent as it was in comparison to what Potter had suffered under the same hands, nothing he hadn't seen a hundred times as a Death Eater, and nothing in their dealing with it unusual enough to warrant attention.

Granger's reaction to pain was disbelief at first, paired with something approaching hysterical fear, while Weasley vented his anger in useless threats and trite oaths of defiance. Nothing unexpected. But to memory-Potter, every second of it was agony, and his newfound serenity wasn't helping here, was a drop of water in the waste, for good as Potter was at accepting his own sacrifice, he was helpless in the face of someone else's suffering, and every spell that hit another's skin cut into him, bled him out, carved away at his soul.

"I've been trying to forget this," present-Potter's voice was barely a whisper. He looked hollowed out, thin and grey and insubstantial, less than a shadow but for his terrible pain. "For so long. I tried to forget that they suffered, how they looked when he made them bleed, how they screamed with the pain. I tried…"

Granger was sobbing as a Death Eater sliced off the skin of her arm, a high, panicked wail of pain and fear and denial, a 'No, no, please, no, don't, please no, don't!" that went on and on and on without mercy or end, and memory-Potter was echoing her words, still silent, still struggling with his chains.

"I tried to remember them differently. There were so many other things, so many years of good memories! I tried to build a wall of them, I tried to forget this, and sometimes I almost managed, sometimes I could think of them without… sometimes I could see them as they were before, Hermione's face tilted up towards the sunshine on the first day of spring, Ron and I in the flying car, their delight when we won the House Cup for the first time, family dinner at the Burrows…"

Weasley's voice rose in a scream of pain, and present-day-Potter's voice rose, too, still babbling, still conjuring memories of better days, as if he could patch them over his eyes and ears, use them as a shield against this moment, a blanket of good, warm things he could huddle under, protected by their power.

"…lessons with Hagrid and conspiracy meetings in the Common Room, all those chocolate frogs we shared and all those letters, the first time I showed them the Room of Requirement and our brilliant seats at the Quidditch World Cup, Hermione's dress for the Yule Ball and Ron's terrible robes, and their smiles, their happiness, their cleverness, their bravery…"

"Are these truly Gryffindors, Potter?" Voldemort shouted gleefully. "Look how they beg, look how they plead. Where is their courage now? Even _you_ did better, and we both know what a snivelling coward you are!"

"And how we laughed," Potter shouted, his voice almost gone, his eyes shining feverishly. "Walking the hills of Hogwarts in the summer, drinking hot chocolate in the kitchens, standing together through everything - there was so much laughter, so much trust, so much happiness! Friendship, _true_ friendship…"

But it was all ash against the horrors of this moment, and his words trailed away, trickled into the empty wasteland of his memories.

His face did not change as he began to cry. His mouth did not twitch. His eyes still shone with the fire of his effort, but the flames were dying now, almost gone.

"How can this be all that is left?" He whispered. "After so many years…"

* * *

A/N:

"Oft denk' ich, sie sind nur ausgegangen,

Bald werden sie wieder nach Haus gelangen,

Der Tag ist schön, o sei nicht bang,

Sie machen nur einen weitern Gang.

Ja wohl, sie sind nur ausgegangen,

Und werden jetzt nach Haus gelangen,

O sei nicht bang, der Tag ist schön,

Sie machen den Gang zu jenen Höhn

Sie sind uns nur voraus gegangen,

Und werden nicht hier nach Haus verlangen;

Wir holen sie ein auf jenen Höhn

Im Sonnenschein, der Tag ist schön."

"I often think that they have just gone out.

Soon they'll be coming home again.

The day is bright! Don't be afraid

They are just walking up there to those heights.

Yes, they have only gone before us

Soon they'll be coming home again.

Don't be afraid, the day is bright!

They are just walking up there to those heights.

They have only gone before us

And will never wish for home again.

We'll find them on those heights! Up in the sunshine!

The day is bright up on those heights."

Friedrich Rückert, _Kindertotenlieder_

x

Weasley and Granger were already burnt flesh – A variation on a quote from the movie "The Name of The Rose": "She is already burnt flesh, Adso."


	45. Castling

**Castling**

* * *

And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country."

_Inaugural Address by John F. Kennedy - January 20th 1961_

* * *

When the Death Eaters ended their spells, when Voldemort lifted the _Silencio_ from Potter, Weasley was once again unconscious from the pain. Granger was still crying quietly. And memory-Potter's face was ashen, only his lips blood-red from where he'd bitten through them in wild abandon.

"Don't," he said slowly, painfully. "No more of this. Stop this now, Tom."

Voldemort laughed, lazily, mockingly.

"Or what?" He asked delightedly. "How would you threaten me? Would you break those chains and fight me, Harry? How will you protect your friends, oh Chosen One?"

Memory-Potter didn't answer. There wasn't a thing he could say.

"I'm sorry," he whispered after a long moment of silence. For the first time since they had been brought here, he was addressing his friends. "I'm so, so sorry. If there was anything I could…"

And Granger, sobbing, panicked Granger lifted her head and met his eyes. She even managed a smile, Snape saw with rising respect. She was stronger than he'd realized.

"It's all right, Harry," Granger whispered through blood and tears. "You can do it. We know you can. All you need is your friends by your side, and then nothing can stop you. Professor Dumbledore said so, too."

Snape felt his heart freeze to ice at her words. His head whipped towards Potter-the-man, who was leaning against one of the columns, barely upright and barely aware.

"What do you mean, Dumbledore said so," memory-Potter whispered, his lips so swollen that they could barely form the words. "What's Dumbledore got do with this?"

Hermione Granger was crying quietly now, her eyes straying towards the prone form of Ronald Weasley.

"He said so when he brought us the portkey," she whispered. "Yesterday. When he came for us and told us that he knew where you were. And he said…" She took a deep, shuddering breath, and Snape felt a shivering echo inside himself, rising to the surface, demanding that it wasn't true, it couldn't be true, that even Dumbledore would never…

"He said that you could defeat Voldemort. You only needed the love and support of your friends, because love is your true weapon. It's the power he knows not, Harry! I know you can keep us all safe, and Professor Dumbledore knows it, too! That's why he told us to come here!"

"He…told you…" Potter-the-boy whispered, horror spreading on his face.

"Not in so many words," Granger admitted, even now a stickler for details. "Remember third year? When he said to use a time turner? It was like that, and I'm sure I haven't gotten him wrong. You _can_ do it! I believe in you!"

Potter-the-boy hung his head. His shoulders began to shake. Snape whipped out his wand, prepared for the Fading to begin - utterly sure that this _had_ to be the thing that did it, because even he, a bystander, felt cracked in the middle - when a strange, harsh sound reached his ears, and he strode over to the boy, crouching down in front of him to see his face.

Potter was laughing.

He was laughing violently, painfully, the spasms of chuckles rippling across a face and body that had long ago turned into an open wound. It must hurt to laugh with lips like that, Snape thought absently, but still he laughed.

And finally, he raised his head to the aghast face of Hermione Granger.

"So that's his master plan?" He choked, and there was more than a little madness in his eyes. "Sending you here? So that I can break my chains and stand tall like a hero? Merlin, Tom was right all along! He _is _crazy."

Snape could hear Granger's shocked intake of breath and her scandalized 'Harry', but all his being was concentrated on Potter. Surely, this was the moment of fracturing? The realization that his mentor, the one parental figure Potter still had in his life, had betrayed him this way?

(And Snape found he couldn't think about it, simply couldn't fathom the consequences of this knowledge for himself, for although his opinion of Dumbledore had changed drastically these past weeks, even the _thought_ of this betrayal threatened to sent him over the edge and he simply hadn't the time to think about it now, he couldn't.)

But still, no Fading.

Only a small boy, thin with hunger and bloodied with torture, laughing and crying and laughing about the joke his life had turned out to be.

"Dumbledore was wrong, Hermione," Potter finally choked. "I have nothing left, no strength, no magic, and especially no love. I'm just broken, nothing else."

"Don't say that, Harry," Granger whispered. "Don't give up on yourself like that. I know the past weeks must have been terrible, but…"

"On the contrary, mudblood," another voice cut in, a smooth, evil voice, filled with amusement. Voldemort might have given up on Potter, but now that he had a new audience to play to, now that fear was again besieging his prisoner, the unnatural delight was strong in the Dark Lord's face. How it had to delight him, this ultimate proof that his adversary was as false as he had always made him out to be. "Little Harry has found that he likes our games just a bit too much, don't you, my boy? I doubt that he'll ever want to leave again. I doubt that he even _wants_ to protect you and that useless muggle lover you've brought with you. Isn't that right, Potter?"

The fury on Potter's face surprised even Voldemort.

"Do you really think that matters to me now?" he shouted at the Dark Lord, his voice breaking and grating but strong with his anger. "The truth doesn't matter. _I _don't matter! I'll do anything if you let them go, I'll be obedient, I'll submit to you, just please, _please_ let them go!"

Granger jerked in her chains. Snape wasn't sure how she could have missed it before, the fact that her friend was truly powerless, that he had nothing left to give. But she saw it now. She realized her mistake. Perhaps she realized how foolish she and Weasley and been, trusting in fairy tales and the strength of their love where only power could ever matter.

Snape saw the moment of understanding on her face. He saw the knowledge of her own death settle into her eyes and prepare a feast there.

Still, she did not break, and Snape found his admiration for her courage rise to another level. She had not survived what Potter had survived. She was what euphemists called an innocent bystander. And still she didn't despair.

"I believe in you, Harry," she whispered. "And even if you're right and you can't do it, it's better to be here, at your side."

"No!" Harry shook his head wildly. "Don't say that, Hermione, don't even think that! You need to get out of here, you need to survive this! I can't let you die, too…"

His head whipped over to Voldemort, the fury in his eyes replaced by raw need now.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, pleaded. "Do you want me to beg? Lick your feet? I'll do it! Untie me and I'll crawl to you on my belly, I'll be your good boy, I'll do everything you say! Just let them go!"

Voldemort's face was ablaze with delight.

"I thought you were done playing, Potter?" He asked, almost coyly. "Make up your mind, will you?"

Perhaps Voldemort expected Potter to despair, perhaps he wanted to push him into submission, but memory-Potter, honest in his desperation, only one need remaining, Potter screamed at the man that had cost him everything, screamed at the monster his fate had chained him to.

Potter screamed a question.

"What do you _want_ from me?"

Before the words had echoed through the room, before the Death Eaters could react to Potter's lack of respect, Voldemort was up and away from his throne, stalking towards Potter, his black robes billowing out behind him, until they were very close to each other, face to face, green eyes to red.

"I want to break you," Voldemort hissed, and Snape couldn't tell anymore what was snake language and what human tongue, what was their own private hell and what shared for the world to see. Voldemort himself didn't care anymore in his savage greed. "I want to rip to pieces everything you held dear and make you watch. I want to burn your world down and grind the ashes under my heel. I want you to see your friends die and stand by helplessly and know that their blood is on your hands."

Potter's mouth opened in a silent, desperate moan, and Voldemort's forked tongue flicked out, whipped at the air, as if tasting the breath from his lungs, licking up his agony.

"_You _did this," the Dark Lord whispered, the words a caress as much as an accusation. "_You _caused this. They could have been happy, normal children growing up to a peaceful life, but _you_ dragged them into your darkness and your filth, and now they're dying because of you, because you're not strong enough to stop it, because you're a failure over and over again, a pathetic, snivelling little thing that thought it could stand up to its betters. How does it feel to see them suffer, Potter? How does it feel to know that it is all your fault, that you failed and will always fail?"

Potter turned his head, trying to avoid the red eyes of his enemy, but Voldemort gripped his face hard, red marks blossoming under his claws, gripped his cheeks and forced him to meet his eyes, his wide, sharp grin, before forcing his head to the other side, where his friends hung in iron chains.

"Look at their faces – they understand what you are, now. They see you for who you truly are, and in their last moments they will curse your name. How does that _feel_? How do you think…"

Memory-Potter's breath was shallow, panicked, just as shallow as his present-day counterpart's, and Snape thought that this had to be it, the moment when Potter realized that despite all he'd done, all he'd sacrificed, he'd not even managed to protect his friends from the manipulation that had destroyed his own life.

But before things could come to a head, before Voldemort could yet again grind down Potter's strength, undo the transformation he himself had wrought unwittingly, before Potter's loved ones could become his downfall, Weasley did the unthinkable.

He interrupted the Dark Lord.

Lips bloody, eyes swollen, body broken, he opened his mouth, and out poured not the senseless bellow of anger and jealousy Snape had been so used to hear from him. Out came words worthy of a Gryffindor.

"Don't listen to him, Harry!" Weasley croaked, and not a hint in his face betrayed who the 'him' he contradicted was. As if he was talking about a schoolboy, not the most powerful wizard on earth. "We'll always be your friends, and we forgive you, even though there's nothing to forgive. We love you, mate. We forgive you."

Voldemort snarled in anger and frustration, for even though Potter's eyes filled with helpless tears at his friend's words, even though he tried to shake his head in refusal of them, his eyes cleared. He stepped away from the brink. The moment of balance passed.

"How dare you," Voldemort hissed, in his anger forgetting that Weasley had not been worthy of his notice a minute ago. "How _dare _you? I will have you suffer for this, blood-traitor! I will have you scream yourself to death!"

But still Weasley's eyes were on Potter, and still his words were only for his friend. Even when curses rocked his body, even when Granger screamed in fear for him, Potter was the only one he saw.

"It's alright, mate," he whispered, his voice almost gone from the screaming. "I get it. This is like a chess game, and sometimes a pawn needs to be sacrificed for the game to be won. It's alright. I believe in you, yeah? Just… just don't let anything happen to Hermione…"

"No," Potter whispered back, shouted, screamed. "No, Ron, you're wrong, you're not a pawn, please Ron, no, no…"

But there was no hope left in his voice.

Ronald Weasley died choking on his own blood, his screams a gurgling, shrill counterpoint to the stillness of Harry Potter, who hung in his chains limply, just as if his legs had been broken for good.


	46. Heroes

Heroes

* * *

"_Unhappy the land that needs a hero." Bertolt Brecht, The life of Galileo Galilei_

* * *

In many ways, Ronald Weasley's death was the opposite of Potter's long, drawn-out Fading. Screaming defiance till the last moment, he nevertheless went quickly and with little fight, while Potter clung to life with the quiet endurance he'd learned over many painful years. Weasley's death was loud and angry and bloody, but the emptiness it left was only in the eyes of his two friends, and Voldemort waved it away as easily as he banished his corpse to the other end of the room, where it wouldn't be seen.

It was a strange thing about the Dark Lord - as eager as he was to wound and inflict pain, as nervously did he shun the dead bodies that resulted. Another day, his Potter might have commented on that fact, using it to show Snape some universal truth about human life and the importance of accepting death.

Another day, Snape would have sneered the lecture away, belittled Saint Potter and refused to think about it - at least in any way Potter could possibly notice.

Today, they both kept their silence. Today, Snape would have given much to hear Saint Potter preach.

But the younger one was crying silently, hunched over as far as his chains would allow, hiding from his friends and his failure to protect them. The older Potter was staring into the distance, his red-rimmed eyes sightless, so still that only the quick flutter of his pulse convinced Snape that he was yet alive.

Snape remembered the resilience this man had shown to the other horrors of his past.

He remembered Potter's openness, his embarrassment and joy and self-deprecating humour. He remembered Potter's expression when he had met Snape's eyes in the darkness of his cupboard, and had leaned forward with honest regret, and asked what he wanted him to do, whether he wanted him to sob into Snape's robes and relive his childhood traumas.

_Accept the things fate dealt us,_ he'd told Snape._ Develop ways to cope and move on._ It had sounded infuriatingly simplistic back then, before Snape had learned what he knew today. Before he'd understood.

Snape remembered, and he deeply regretted that it had come to this. He finally understood why Potter might have preferred death to reliving these memories. He wondered, for one, short moment, if it wouldn't have been better to remain silent and never mention the possibility of a treatment.

He felt that anything might be easier to bear than to witness this destruction once more.

Then Hermione Granger opened her mouth to speak, and once again Snape found himself in the irritating position of being surprised by Gryffindors.

"You can kill us," the girl said, enunciating as clearly as if she sat in a classroom, even though her body trembled with fear and pain. "But you can never stop the truth, V… Voldemort. Harry is better than a hundred of you, and so w…was Ron."

Her face twisted at Weasley's name, grief overwhelming her for a moment, but then she pressed her lips together, and raised her chin stubbornly, and continued with a courage Snape had – until this moment – thought unique to Harry Potter.

"And no matter who you kill, or how powerful you'll get, you'll only ever be a half-blood with a father who didn't want him and a mother who died in the workhouse. You'll only ever be an evil, inhuman, cowardly snake! And you can silence me, but you can't silence the facts!"

Lifting her chin even further, Granger met the Dark Lord's red glare without flinching.

There was something like triumph in her eyes.

Memory-Potter's face filled with horror at her audacity. Voldemort's lips twisted in anger. But Snape couldn't help but stare at the girl with something worryingly close to awe.

Her own words had just sentenced her to a quick, brutal killing – he could see that she was aware of it, just as much as Potter-the-boy was. But Snape could see more than just that in her face, more than the certainty of her death, could see that her words had been more than defiance screamed into the void, more than just one brave last stand before the inevitable fall.

No, Granger was far more aware of the currents between the Dark Lord and Potter, of the many ways Voldemort might use her to hurt her last, best friend. She was aware that she would die, and that the manner of her death might shatter Potter for good.

And in the face of this knowledge, she had made a choice. Had played the one ace yet up her sleeve, had bargained on the assumption that her knowledge was too dangerous to Voldemort, that he wouldn't risk it spreading among his followers. She had executed a plan that forced the Dark Lord to kill her quickly, without taking his time, without hurting Potter more than was inevitable. Had executed it perfectly.

For even as Voldemort was regarding her with fury, the Death Eaters flanking his throne shifted uneasily. They hadn't unmasked themselves, but Snape could nevertheless see the way their eyes darted from the girl to their Lord and back.

Voldemort's face twisted. Just for a heartbeat, and then perfect control slid back over his features, hiding his thoughts, but that heartbeat was sufficient for Snape to realize that Granger had played the Dark Lord and won.

And Granger saw it, too. Up her chin went, and her eyes glittered with defiance.

"Will you _silencio_ me now to hide the truth?" she demanded – demanded! As if the Dark Lord was a third year who hadn't done his homework on time! "I'm not afraid of you, _Tom Riddle_, I'm…"

One swish of Voldemort's wand silenced her, a second had her doubling up in pain, but despite the tears that ran down her cheeks, her face remained defiant. She would not let him triumph.

Snape turned towards Potter-the-man, _his _Potter, to share his astonishment and respect, for once not even considering to hide his true feelings. He had underestimated her, had underestimated all three of them, and he was ready to admit it.

But Potter was still staring ahead dumbly, lost in a world of his own making. Snape hadn't the heart to rouse him from it. So he turned his eyes back to the scene of this memory, bracing himself to witness the events about to unfold, the death of a girl he had only come to respect in the moments before her unmaking.

Suddenly, her pain seemed a terrible thing to see, not insignificant at all.

"I weary of this, Potter," Voldemort now said, his voice sharp and lazy and cruel. "Your friends are as tedious as you have been. I had considered keeping her alive a bit, use her as my puppet, perhaps, but I tire of the lying mudblood. Shall we finish her?"

"No," memory-Potter's hoarse voice pleaded. Either the boy hadn't understood his friend's plan, or it simply didn't matter to him. "Please don't… I… I know things that might be valuable to you! I could go back and spy on the Order for you, anything, just please, _please_ let her go…"

The Dark Lord's high, eerie laughter washed over the cold stones of his throne room, over the crying Potter, his silenced friend.

"My useless plaything, offering itself to me," Voldemort mused, and if there was regret in his eyes, longing for what might have been, he hid it deeply. "A broken toy, asking not to be discarded. Would you serve me then, Harry? With all your heart? Crawl on your belly and kiss my feet?"

"Yes," there was no hesitation in Potter. "Yes. Anything. Anything…"

Snape had to avert his eyes from Potter's desperate eagerness.

Voldemort pursed his lips in playful consideration.

"Such loyalty," he said. "Such devotion. Wasted on a mudblood. You disappoint me, Harry. Truly. I thought you had the makings of a great wizard, but clearly you're no better than the other fools the old man has gathered around him. A pity."

He paused, his head cocked mockingly, listening to Potter's pleas with the grandeur of a prince. Then his face abruptly cleared.

"Say goodbye to your mudblood, Potter. Tell her how sorry you are. Explain why you failed to save her."

The Dark Lord let his eyes fall from the boy he had marked as his equal. He turned his attention to the girl beside him. He raised his wand.

Potter-the-boy froze.

Even much, much later, after Snape's mind had spent hours lingering on that moment, twisting and turning it, examining it from every angle, he would still lack any understanding of what went through the boy's head in that heartbeat – whether Potter knew what he was doing, whether he was harbouring a desperate plan, or whether it was sheer instinct that took over as he saw the words of the Killing Curse form on Voldemort's lips.

Snape would never know.

But the moment kept replaying in his mind, over and over with a crystal clarity that wouldn't stale with passing time. It would stay with him forever.

How Voldemort smiled coldly. How his mouth opened, how his wand rose.

And how Harry Potter's useless pleas ceased. How he half-twisted around to the iron pole he'd been shackled to, his chains clanging, keeping him from his friend.

Barely able to stand. Hands useless. Lips bleeding. But still his eyes were clear and his voice was commanding when he spoke a single word: "Open."

The chains fell from him. They clattered to the ground, their noise drowning Voldemort's _Avada Kedavra_.

The sound would be strangely muted in Snape's memory, muffled, and over time, noise and colour and stench would melt together, facets of that single moment, forever looped.

Harry Potter, barely able to stand, free for the first time in months.

Turning.

Throwing himself in front of Hermione Granger.

Taking the curse meant for her.

Straight to his forehead.

Granger's scream of denial mingled with Voldemort's furious bellow, but even that first, breathless, unbelievable time, when everything moved too fast to really be seen, leaving Snape dizzy, even then Snape's attention was fixed on nothing but the green jet of light, hitting Potter with the force of lightning, throwing him backwards.

But not sinking into his skin as it was supposed to.

Not vanishing, but rather gathering, increasing in light and intensity, until it shone upon Potter's forehead like a star, impossibly bright.

Then rebounding.

It spread across Voldemort's body like wildfire, licking at his feet and hands, his throat and heart, and then the Dark Lord's roar turned to shock, to fear.

To horror.

Light burst from his skin, poisonous grey light, engulfing the two guards that stood close to them, swallowing them whole. Spreading through the hall, pulsing, and for a moment it seemed as if it would reach for Potter and his friend as well, before it was suddenly sucked back to its centre, folding in on itself.

For one breath, Voldemort stood perfectly still.

There was nothing but fear in his eyes, the desperate, all-encompassing fear of a small boy facing the cruelty of the world for the first time.

Then his body toppled to the ground. Lifeless. An empty shell of meat and bones.

* * *

In the silence that followed, anything seemed possible.

Snape didn't dare turn around to his Potter. He didn't dare breathe. He knew that Potter had survived this – his very presence in this memory was proof of it. But in that moment, Snape just couldn't believe it.

Then memory-Potter groaned. Pitifully and pathetically, and not at all how a hero was supposed to sound, but it seemed enough for Granger, who gasped in relief.

"Harry!" she shouted rather shrilly. "Get up, Harry! You have to get up now!"

This, Snape thought dazedly, was a slightly ungrateful reaction to someone who'd been willing to sacrifice his life for her. Potter clearly thought so, too. He only groaned again, not moving an inch.

"Get up this instant, Harry Potter!" Granger sounded surprisingly bossy, considering that she'd almost been killed a few moments ago. "You're not done yet! There's a spell you have to do, right now, 'cause if you don't he'll just resurrect himself again, like before!"

Snape stared at the girl, then whirled around to his Potter for confirmation.

The man was still watching something only he could see, was still crying, almost absently, but he must have noticed Snape moving and was aware enough to react. He slowly nodded.

"Yes," he said tonelessly. "That was Hermione. I wouldn't have had the slightest idea what to do. As I said. My friends were always the best part of me."

Unable to formulate an adequate response to that, not after what he'd witnessed, Snape just nodded silently in turn. And as he watched Potter-the-boy pick himself up slowly, rolling to his knees, then standing carefully, hands clutching a column, just like he'd stood up in the bathtub after his last attack, days ago and a lifetime later, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

Snape had always wondered about this part, mistrusted the explanation Albus and the Order had come up with. To think that Potter, a mediocre student at best, had somehow gotten his hands on an ancient soul-destroying curse and managed to remember it in the nick of time to finish the Dark Lord off for good - it had always been too good to be true.

And now he knew.

"Did she learn of it by herself?" he asked quietly, not sure if he wanted the answer. "Or did Albus…"

His Potter shrugged.

"I never found out. But there are other ways than simply telling, especially for the Headmaster. Exclusive passes for the Restricted Section, hints, books scattered about, pages mysteriously marked…"

Again, Snape felt bile rise in his throat, and again he shoved the feeling of betrayal and all its consequences to the back of his mind. Later. Later.

Instead he watched, bearing witness, committing the events to memory. Because it was the only thing he could do, and because these children, these _Gryffindors_, deserved someone to see what they did, and to remember it.

"You have to take his wand, Harry," Granger said in a high, nervous voice. Blood was trickling down her face from a wound in her cheek, and she rubbed her face impatiently against her chained arms to get rid of it. "Quickly! There's bound to be more guards around, and we need to get this done before anybody comes!"

Potter was more stumbling than walking, but he obeyed, perhaps only by force of habit. His hands were shaking wildly, but they touched Voldemort's corpse without hesitation, searched the folds of his black robes like timid mice scrabbling for bounty. His fingers found the Dark Lord's wand, closed around it.

When its tip lightened up, just for a heartbeat, to show that the wand accepted its new master, something like regret darted across Potter-the-boy's face.

"Oh, Tom," he whispered. Nothing more.

He repeated the Latin incantation Granger dictated slowly, word by word, and his hands were surprisingly steady as he traced a horizontal figure eight, symbol of eternity, with the wand of his mortal enemy.

He did not even hesitate when she told him to cut his hand. But perhaps after all he'd been through in this room, it would have been laughable for him to shy away from such a small pain.

His face did not change as he let his blood drip down on the face of Tom Riddle, former Dark Lord. There was no triumph in his eyes.

But there was also no sorrow.

"That should bind him," Granger whispered. It was clear that she, despite their situation and the past hours, was aware of the enormity of this moment. "I think you've done it right. Now you need to burn the corpse."

At this, Potter-the-boy flinched, reminded perhaps of the last Death Eater he had burnt. But he did not hesitate.

"_Incendio_," he said, and the wand obeyed its new master like a faithful dog.

Snape expected lights, sounds, the spirit of Voldemort rising from the fire, something.

Anything.

But nothing happened. Nothing but a stick-thin boy, standing over the burning body of his tormentor, and a bleeding girl, watching him as she stood chained to a pole.

It was appallingly anticlimactic.


	47. Small Things

**Small Things**

* * *

_This is the way the world ends. _

_This is the way the world ends. _

_This is the way the world ends. _

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

T.S. Eliot, _The Hollow Men_

* * *

"_Incendio," he said, and the wand obeyed its new master like a faithful dog._

_Snape expected lights, sounds, the spirit of Voldemort rising from the fire, something. Anything. _

_But nothing happened. Nothing but a stick-thin boy, standing over the burning body of his tormentor, and a bleeding girl, watching him as she hung chained to a pole. _

_It was appallingly anticlimactic._

* * *

"You did it, Harry," Granger croaked, and here was the triumph Snape had been waiting for. "You did it! I knew you could!"

"No," Potter-the-boy whispered, his eyes still fixed to the fire. "You did it, Hermione. If you hadn't known that spell…"

He looked back at her, and finally seemed to remember their situation, that they were in danger, that his friend was still in chains, because something in his face cleared.

"Right," he said. "Right. Let's get out of here."

He aimed another healing spell at himself, then an energy-enhancing one, both regularly used by his torturers to keep him alive, and Snape found a hollow kind of amusement in the fact that Potter was using the spells he'd learned from Death Eaters during his imprisonment to flee this place. His magic was weak though, and while his legs were steadier as he walked towards Granger, he was obviously still in pain.

But walk he did, and he flicked his new wand at her chains without hesitation, and caught her in his arms when she fell, collapsing to the ground with her, shielding her from the harsh, cold stone.

For a long moment, they clung to each other silently, not moving, barely breathing.

Then, Granger began to cry. Deep, heaving sobs of pain and exhaustion, and Potter's face twisted at the sound, but his eyes remained dry, and the strength in his arms around her seemed to grow.

"It's alright, Hermione," he whispered, softly cradling her head in his hands, and for the first time since fourth year, Snape saw hope in his eyes, a soft, flickering light that opened a path into the future. "We can go home now. He is dead. The prophecy is fulfilled. We can go home."

"But Ron…" she whimpered, and Potter closed his eyes in utter exhaustion.

"I know," he said, and Granger nodded, realizing perhaps that there was nothing else to say, nothing to take the pain away and make the world alright again.

They lingered for a moment longer, half-lying, half-sitting, Potter supporting Granger and she holding onto him for dear life.

Then the girl pulled herself together visibly, sat up, and even ran her hands through her hair as if to restore some order to the bloody, frizzy locks.

"We have to go," she said urgently. "They might come any minute, Harry. Ron has an emergency portkey sown into his robes. We can take that. I…"

"You had a portkey?" Potter interrupted her, disbelieving. "You had a bloody portkey, and you stayed here?"

"They separated us, and he wouldn't leave me alone," she said simply, although her eyes once more filled with tears. She wiped them away impatiently. "And anyway, we wouldn't have left without you. We knew this would be our one chance of finding you, after all."

Potter opened his mouth, but then seemed to recognize that this was neither the time nor place to argue with her. He just shook his head, and Snape found that he was unconsciously mirroring his gesture. Such devotion, paired with such stupidity. Gryffindors were truly marvellous creatures.

"Never mind," Potter said. "Ron is… his body is a the other end of the room. Can you walk?"

"I think so." Granger didn't sound entirely sure. But somehow she got to her feet, even if she was swaying wildly.

"That's it," Potter said encouragingly. "It's not far, and then we're safe. We can do this, Hermione. You can do this."

Potter rose, too, carefully supporting Granger, and Snape wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, wanted to smile, to celebrate the Dark Lord's demise and the wondrous survival of these two.

Except for one thing: The memory of this same girl, wearing these same clothes, bearing these same wounds. Her body stretched out on the carpet of the Headmaster's office. Hand slack. Eyes sightless. Skin long-cold.

Snape knew that despite their triumph now, despite the careful hope beginning to mingle with the grief in their eyes, this wasn't going to turn into a miraculous escape. Hope was in vain.

He knew that Granger hadn't made it out alive.

He turned his eyes towards Potter-the-man, propped against a column of the dark throne room, and saw tears streaming down his face, saw a raw, bleeding grief so deep that it cut.

And understood, although he knew it was madness, that the worst was yet to come. This Harry Potter in front of him, this bloodied, tortured martyr, this victor over the greatest darkness they had ever known, was not yet broken.

The worst had not yet happened.

"_This is the way the world ends,"_ he whispered as he watched the pair of teenagers make their way through the desert of dark marble, the words of an old muggle poem springing unbidden to his lips.

_This is the way the world ends._

He didn't see the Death Eater that had crouched behind one of the fallen marble columns, wouldn't have seen him at all except for the gasp that escaped Potter-the-man's lips. No, not a gasp, rather a soft whimper, a sound of resignation and hurt, but sufficient to direct Snape's attention to the man. And his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra_", The Death Eater hissed, and Snape's breath hitched. As he watched the green light speed towards Potter and Granger, he realized that he was waiting, waiting for the inevitable death that he knew would happen, had to happen, because he had seen it.

_This is the way the world ends_.

But he was mistaken once again. With a strength he couldn't humanly still possess, Potter grabbed the Granger girl and shoved her towards a column, then dove down behind another block of marble.

The curse missed.

"This is stupid," Potter-the-boy called out to the Death Eater, and Snape had to suppress an irritated groan. Gryffindor to the last. "Your Lord is dead! There's nothing left to fight for! We only want to leave in peace!"

Another Killing Curse illuminated the marble, giving Potter the answer to his offer.

"Harry," Granger whispered, her eyes wide in a face smeared with blood and tears, "I think I should be able to get in his back, then we can attack him from both sides…"

Potter looked worried by the concept of letting her leave his side, that much was obvious, but after a moment of hesitation he nodded and she started to crawl away from him, barely making a sound.

Potter began trading curses with the Death Eater again to distract him from his friend's progress, and while green and red lights sizzled through the air, three pairs of eyes traced Granger's way through the dark throne room avidly – two pairs Potter, one pair Snape.

Astonishingly, Granger actually managed to avoid the Death Eater's attention until she'd taken position behind him (_too close_, Snape thought, decades of fighting experience snapping to the front of his mind, _much too close to him to be safe_).

Her first spell caught him in the shoulder and the man cried out, half-slumping to the ground.

But he was still conscious, and he was angry now. There was nothing more dangerous than a desperate or angry opponent, and Granger was close enough to be reached in just a few steps.

The Death Eater cast a shield charm. He rose to his feet, turning towards the new threat, and Potter-the-boy cried out in alarm. He was too far away to punch through the shield charm and Granger, not used to duelling in earnest, perhaps still dazed from her ordeal, froze.

"No!" Potter-the-boy shouted. "Stay away from her. Hermione, get back!"

Granger tried another stunner that bounced off the Death Eater's shield charm. He kept advancing on her, she scrambling away from him, her spells useless. The masked man had not even raised his wand at her. Clearly, he was enjoying this.

And Potter helpless, his face full of panic, his hands shaking with weakness and adrenaline, Potter did the one thing he could think of to save his friend.

"_Reducto_!" he cried, but whether his aim had been off or the foreign wand refused to cooperate, he missed his target and the spell, instead of hitting the stray Death Eater, ricocheted off the wall and towards the ceiling, where it struck an already cracking stone panel.

The wall exploded, stones and mortar raining down onto an enemy that would never move again. Potter-the-boy looked triumphant, but Granger was screaming, screaming for Potter and for help, because the destruction was racing towards her, and the cracks in the ceiling built faster than she could flee.

"Harry!" She screamed. "Harry, run! I can't…"

One of the rocks, torn lose from the explosion, caught her right in the back.

_This is the way the world ends_.

Snape didn't have to hear the dull thud with which her body connected to the ground. He didn't have to see the unnatural angle of her neck and arm. He knew what had happened from the way Potter-the-man went utterly still, his head cradled in his hands as if to hide.

Hermione Granger was dead.

And it hadn't been the Dark Lord's doing.

* * *

Silence. For a long, interminable moment, there was only the echo of falling rocks and screams dancing through the dusty air, and when that had faded all too quickly, its memory still ghosted through their heads.

"No," Potter-the-boy whispered, and his voice was very quiet, but the world was silent as the grave. "No."

His way across the room was a wild, heedless scramble, and if any other enemies had been hidden in the shadows, they would have taken him out with ease. But he was all alone in the grand darkness of Voldemort's throne room.

Three times he fell, and every time Snape doubted whether he would get to his feet again, but some unknown well of strength kept him going, as if his legs were driven by the sheer power of his fear.

And then he'd reached her side, and one look at Granger's twisted body and sightless eyes was enough to tell even Potter the truth, and he stumbled to his knees, his head falling forward, resting on his chest, as all breath went out of him in one huge, sobbing sigh.

"Hermione…"

One hand reached out, but before he could touch her hair, his fingers curled back into a fist, like a flower blooming in reverse. Like light sucked into a black hole.

"Don't… But I promised Ron. I promised!"

His body became still, as still as hers, as if one careless move, even a harsh breath, could break the spell of his denial and drag him into this reality for good.

Snape had witnessed this moment of stillness so many times now – in front of a towering uncle, a magic mirror, the dying Ginny Weasley, in Dumbledore's office after Black had fallen and in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place after the death of Lupin. But somehow this seemed like the culmination of all those moments, those pinpricks in time when Potter hunched in on himself, faced with a pain too great to bear, and even destiny's breath seemed to hitch.

Potter-the-boy stayed quiet for a long time.

Snape couldn't imagine the nature of his thoughts.

Then he leaned forward, narrow shoulders drawn tight, and softly touched her small, white hand.

"There is blood in your hair," he told the corpse in front of him calmly, his eyes darting across her body and face. "You should wash it in cold water, or it'll never come off. Or is that just for clothes? I'm not sure…"

The doors to the throne room burst open, not far to the right of where Potter sat besides Granger.

"My Lord…" a Death Eater began to shout, panic in his voice.

Potter killed him almost absently, just a flick of the Dark Lord's wand and his head exploded in a shower of blood.

"You always told me to be more precise with my wandwork," he told Granger's body. "But, see, it's just a question of aiming right."

He giggled, a short, awful sound that sank back into the silence as abruptly as it had begun. His fingers were entwined with hers, and his knees rested in a pool of blood that spread from her wounds.

Almost reflexively, Snape aimed a diagnostic spell behind him, taking in the readings without moving his eyes from the memory-Potter once – not sure whether because he didn't want to leave the boy alone in the face of his pain, or because he couldn't bear facing the man he would become.

"You look cold," Potter-the-boy whispered, his one hand still clutching Voldemort's wand, his other Granger's hand. "Are you cold?"

Again he flicked his wand, and a rock rose into the air, transfigured into a blanket in mid-flight, then settled over Granger's body.

Was it the new wand? Some part of Snape wondered at this casual display of power from a boy that should have been all but drained. And what did it say about Potter that the Dark Lord's own wand should be fitted to him so well? Or had the past months unlocked something in him? A resource of power he'd not been able to access before? There were accounts of such cases, Snape remembered, wizards who had been through traumatizing events and come out of them much stronger than they had been, where others had burnt out and ended up as squibs.

But another, much larger part of himself was very aware that he was scrambling for scientific distance, desperately searching for something that could disconnect him from this broken boy and the broken body of his friend.

"You must be so tired," Potter told Granger's body soothingly. "It's good that you get some sleep now. You need to sleep, and then you'll be fine, you'll be just fine, Hermione, just…"

Then, finally, Potter began to weep.

His chest heaved with dry, hacking sobs, his upper body swaying back and forth, too weak to contain the force of his grief, and it seemed to Snape that Potter was crying not only for Granger, not only for this last, devastating loss, but for all that had been taken from him.

"This makes no sense," Potter whispered, gasped, his voice soft and cloyed with tears. "I fulfilled the prophecy. This was my destiny. I did the_ right thing_. I did as I was told, so why should _you…_ Where is the sense in this?"

His sorrow seemed to wash out of him, filling the air around him, sinking into the marble floor, bleeding into the darkness. And Snape was transfixed, overwhelmed with such unexpected sympathy that he couldn't think, couldn't free himself from this grief, the heavy cloud of magic descending on them.

Not until Potter's face in its terrible mourning became strangely clear to see, shone white in the gloom of Voldemort's throne room, illuminated by pearly light. Not until the Fading was already upon him.

Snape's wand seemed to slide into his hand of its own volition. He froze the memory, froze the boy into an endless still life of grief, froze the girl's body as the warmth of life slowly seeped from her. Only in the sudden absence of Potter-the-boy's crying and the echoes that ghosted through the large room could he hear his Potter's breathing again, and if Snape heaved a sigh of relief at that sound, his back was to his patient and Potter would never know.

For one moment, he bowed his head to the tableau in front of him.

It felt as if, even while Potter's grief had descended on him with its crushing pain, a heavy weight was lifting from his shoulders.

They had found the moment they'd been searching for. They knew when the illness had begun. They could treat it. And Potter was still alive.

A week ago, he would have marvelled over the fact that after all Potter had done and survived, after three months in the Dark Lord's hands, it was a rock hitting the spine of a school girl that could do this to Potter.

But not now. Now he knew the man, he knew his past, and he understood that there was an evil sort of symmetry to this.

Only a small thing could ever break a man like Potter.

One last moment he gave the boy that would grow into the man behind him. Then Snape forced his eyes away, forced himself to turn his back on Potter-the-boy and Granger, and hurry over to his patient.

"Potter," he barked, hiding his weakness as much from himself as from the other man. "Get up, Potter. We need to commence the treatment. There isn't much time left."

Potter's eyes were closed. One of his hands had risen to his face as if he could shield himself from the events around him. His face was white with exhaustion and grief.

"Potter!"

The man stirred, but he did not open his eyes.

"Did you see?" he asked, his voice like the wind rustling through empty branches. "How brave she was. How quickly she died."

He hesitated, and Snape could see his throat work, as if he was desperately trying to swallow a bite that would not go down.

"Did you see how I killed her?"

The question, the shame and resignation packed into such few words, hit Snape like a punch.

"You did not kill her," he said roughly. "It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone. Get up now, Potter."

"She saved my life," Potter continued in that same, awful voice. It seemed as if he hadn't even heard Snape. "She trusted me. She came here of her free will, and she trusted me even after I got Ron killed. And then she outsmarted Tom, and destroyed his soul. And I killed her with a rock."

"You did _not_ kill her," Snape repeated, though he was well aware it was useless. But he was worried about the way Potter seemed to ignore him, about the dead look in his eyes. "Now get up, Potter, I'm telling you the last time. We need to get you treated _now."_

Finally, Potter looked up at him. His cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes red, but they were surprisingly clear, and when he spoke, there was no sign of indecision in his face.

"No," he said quietly. "No, Professor. No treatment for me."


	48. Salvation in Surrender

**Salvation in Surrender**

* * *

"_You did not kill her," Snape repeated, though he was well aware it was useless. But he was worried about the way Potter seemed to ignore him, about the dead look in his eyes. "Now get up, Potter, I'm telling you the last time. We need to get you treated now."_

_Finally, Potter looked up at him. His cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes red, but they were surprisingly clear, and when he spoke, there was no sign of indecision in his face. _

"_No," he said quietly. "No, Professor. No treatment for me."_

* * *

For a moment, Snape just stared at him in disbelief, the words refusing to make sense in his mind.

"You can't be serious," he then said. "This is it, Potter. We spent weeks to get you here and now I can finally heal you. So don't be ridiculous. Here, let me help you get up, we just need you to…"

Snape stretched out a hand, but Potter ignored it. His eyes were fixed on the frozen image of his memory instead, his spine pressed against the column behind him, even his head tilted back, as if he was trying to put as much distance between him and that other Potter as he could.

"I made my choice," he whispered.

"And what kind of choice is that supposed to be?" A part of Snape was still thinking that he might fix this with quick words and decisive actions, that he could sway Potter by sheer force of personality. It was a small part, but he had to try. "Cease this nonsense. Get up."

"No."

There was no room for discussion in that word. But Snape didn't care.

"Yes, damn you. If you won't get up willingly, I'll just float you over there. You've been through too much to simply give up like this, like a whimp, like a coward. You'll face this, and you'll heal. This will _not_ break you, Potter."

"_This_ is my friend," Potter said. It sounded as if he wanted to shout, but simply lacked the strength to do it. "Dead. After she saved my life. After she saved the world from Voldemort. Dead. By _my hand_."

"I'm telling you, you idiot, this wasn't your fault…"

"Just look at him, Professor," Potter, his eyes fixed on his younger counterpart, hadn't raised his voice, but he was yelling all the same. "Look at his face. It's all unravelling, his faith, the coordinates of his world, everything he believed about himself. He's broken, he's done, he won't be himself again until he's nearly snuffed out his life a dozen times, and there are parts of him that will never recover, anyway, and I cannot go there again, I cannot!"

Yes, Snape thought tiredly, remembering a younger Potter's guilt at the death of Black and Lupin, his shame in past and presence at the killing of Bellatrix. This was what had lain behind it all, behind the easy acceptance, the friendly generosity, all the hiding.

Potter could forgive anyone. But not himself.

"I cannot do this," Potter whisper-yelled, and there was a fear in his eyes that had nothing to do with dying and everything with living. "I _cannot_ be him. Anything else I could have… perhaps… But not this."

How to answer this? How to convince him?

But even as Snape sorted through his options, weighing the best approach, he saw Potter pull himself together, put on a face that, for a man who knew him less well, would have looked rational, calm, convincing.

"Besides," Potter said, "it doesn't matter. Voldemort is dead. He died before this happened. There's no need for me to go through with this again. You won't have to destroy my soul after all, and so what's the bother? Let's just leave, let's just…"

"That's not what this is about," Snape said harshly, and it wasn't, it hadn't been for a long time, not since Potter had invited him into his house and introduced him to his friends. Perhaps, if he was honest with himself, not ever.

But Potter for once refused to acknowledge the words Snape couldn't speak – he was fixed on his course and nothing could divert his attention.

"Yes, I get that things will be more difficult for Shadow if I don't let him out of the dungeons, and for the centaurs, but they'll manage…"

"A bunch of centaurs and vampires are not the reason why I'm trying to heal you, Potter," Snape ground out, aiming for calm, for sensitive, for persuasive, but aware that he was failing badly.

He felt out of control, on the verge of something he could neither name nor fully understand. But he also felt, perhaps more strongly than ever before in his life, that control wouldn't get him anywhere right now. His only choice was to let this happen, whatever it was.

Potter tried to wave his words away.

"I am aware that the Order will have a harder time with the remaining Death Eaters, and Chairon will have to find another Eques, but I'm sure it'll be fine. There are a number of capable druids who would do just as well. And perhaps Ayda and Shadow will come to blows, but there have been conflicts in the past, and the druids have always resolved them peacefully, so…"

Snape felt something burst within him. Perhaps it were the last vestiges of his patience. Or his professional distance.

"And what about all those other things people want from you, you idiot?" he shouted, not caring that his voice was anything but smooth. "Do you think all you have to offer your friends is rescue from Voldemort, or leading the druids, or riding on Chairon to battle? Don't you think we all want more from you than that sacrificial nonsense?"

Potter stopped.

He looked up at Snape, and for the first time since this memory had begun playing, he seemed to truly meet his eyes. Snape wasn't sure what the other man saw – he was uncomfortably aware that his masks had slipped a long time ago.

He refused to look away, though. He would not join Potter in his fear to confront himself.

And something in his face, whatever it was, achieved what his words had failed to do. It reached out to Potter. It made him understand.

His thin, parchment-dry lips widened to a smile. It was only the shadow of that old grin Snape had hated so much in the beginning, gentle, accepting and slightly mocking, like a lopsided embrace that you couldn't refuse no matter how hard you tried. But it was a smile, and Snape had nearly given up on seeing that again.

"Why, Professor, I didn't know you cared," Potter whispered.

Snape swallowed. Suddenly, his throat was dry and his feet itched to carry him out of the room.

He didn't let them.

"Neither did I," he whispered back, and the smile widened until it was the old, Potterish, reckless one again, ablaze with optimism and belief.

"You do realize that you're blackmailing me, unashamedly," Potter croaked. "It's a very Slytherin thing, to use my helping-people thing to trick me into doing this."

Somewhere in his tense body, Snape found the strength to shrug his shoulders coldly, arrogantly, like the old Snape would have done.

"As long as it works," he said.

Potter's eyes half closed. He seemed to listen in on himself as he sat there, searching inside his body and mind for the strength that would be needed, for the will to keep on going.

Snape didn't dare breathe. More than Potter's life was hinging on this decision, he knew it instinctively, more than even his soul. As Snape stood in the remembered echo of Voldemort's throne room, intangible dust swirling around him, as he watched one Potter's breaking and another's hesitation on the threshold between healing and death up, he knew that his Potter might not choose life.

Snape knew that he would accept that decision. Too much had happened between them to refuse the man that wish. Too much had changed not to honour his promise.

But he also knew that, should Potter die and leave them all in this castle full of memories, something precious would be gone from the world, some fleeting, ephemeral thing that could never be regained.

And Snape knew that he would grieve for that thing, lost forever, would grieve in the halls of his past with a truth and abandon he'd thought impossible.

He wouldn't come out of this unchanged. He didn't want to, anymore.

Time passed. It was impossible to measure how much, and he was very aware of the strange contrast this frozen memory and his frenzied thoughts made. More time passed.

Then Potter lifted his head, and once again met his eyes.

And nodded.

"What do I have to do?" he asked.

Snape had explained the procedure to Potter in the very beginning, when he had not yet been sure whether the man possessed the mental capacities of even a flubberworm. Therefore, the explanation had been long and redundant, and very condescending, simple enough to make absolutely sure that even Potter would understand.

So Snape knew that Potter didn't really need an answer to that question. He gave one, anyway.

"Get as close to your counterpart as possible. We will use a spell to merge you two together, join your consciousnesses to connect the outset of your illness with its advanced stage. I will give you a potion now. If it works, as it by all accounts should, it will knit together the newly split parts of your past self's core and heal you. It should only take a few minutes."

Potter nodded again. He took the potion and swallowed it without expression. Then he reached up to the marble column he'd been leaning against all this time. He disregarded Snape's hand, stretched out to help him rise, ignored all assistance. Instead, he hoisted himself up, slowly, his breath laboured and shallow. It was difficult not to step in and help.

Potter stood, or rather he did not fall again, then stumbled towards his memory counterpart, his pace wobbly and unsure, but Snape instinctively understood that he couldn't help in this, not without taking this choice from Potter.

It was strange to see the two Potters so close together, one frozen on the ground, hands clenched in Granger's hair, one leaning over him, almost against him. Both so tired.

Snape could see his Potter's eyes dart over the dead body of his friend, over the twisted expression of grief on his younger self's face. He could see the older man's face twist, too, in the mirror expression of that sorrow. Then Potter placed a hand on his memory's shoulder and got down on his knees, his chest pressed against his younger self's back. The three bodies seemed to melt into each other.

Potter did not look up, but his hand clutched the memory's skin tightly, and his back was stiff with pain and fear.

"Do it," he said tonelessly.

Snape did not allow himself to doubt the outcome of this. He did not allow himself to consider what he would do if this treatment failed, if, after all they'd been through, the healing did not take.

He steeled himself into belief and cast the spell.

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then the two Potter's began to shimmer, their contours twisting, this new magic mixing with the pale light of the Fading. Like a blurry photograph, their frames began to coalesce, overlapping inch by inch, until the boy and the man had merged.

As he watched two Potters become one, all the memories, all the pasts and futures Snape had seen pass by these last weeks seemed to rise before his eyes, all the things he'd learned, the decisions he'd made. They fit like the pieces of a puzzle, dancing, eluding his grasp and still coming together to form a picture that was too large for him to see, too grand to be understood just now.

Finally, there was only one pair of arms wrapped around Granger, only one pair of eyes looking down at her. This was neither Potter-the-man nor Potter-the-boy. It was an amalgamation of both, a face old and young at the same time, new lines crossing old scars, illuminated by the pearly light of the Fading. It was someone Snape didn't know, and at the same time, knew all too well.

Potter looked up at him, thin arms cradling the body of his long dead friend, and his face was pale except for the blood that coated it, his hair was matted with dirt. His lightning bolt scar shone red against the sickly-white skin.

His eyes were like black holes, like tunnels into the dark.

"I kill everyone I love," he said.

* * *

_Something we were withholding made us weak_

_Until we found out that it was ourselves_

_We were withholding from our land of living, _

_And forthwith found salvation in surrender. _

Robert Frost, _The Gift Outright _


	49. Our Land of Living

**Our Land of Living**

* * *

_Something we were withholding made us weak_

_Until we found out that it was ourselves_

_We were withholding from our land of living, _

_And forthwith found salvation in surrender. _

Robert Frost, _The Gift Outright _

* * *

_As he watched two Potters become one, all the memories, all the pasts and futures Snape had seen pass by these last weeks seemed to rise before his eyes, all the things he'd learned, the decisions he'd made. They fit like the pieces of a puzzle, dancing, eluding his grasp and still coming together to form a picture that was too large for him to see, too grand to be understood just now._

_Finally, there was only one pair of arms wrapped around Granger, only one pair of eyes looking down at her. This was neither Potter-the-man nor Potter-the-boy. It was an amalgamation of both, a face old and young at the same time, new lines crossing old scars, illuminated by the pearly light of the Fading. It was someone Snape didn't know, and at the same time, knew all too well._

_Potter looked up at him, thin arms cradling the body of his long dead friend, and his face was pale except for the blood that coated it, his hair was matted with dirt. His lightning bolt scar shone red against the sickly-white skin._

_His eyes were like black holes, like tunnels into the dark._

_"I kill everyone I love," he said._

* * *

The words hit Snape like a punch. Not because they were an echo of other memories, other instances of loss and overwhelming grief, but because they were spoken in Potter-the-man's calm, composed voice, in that tone that left no room for doubt or insecurity. They were spoken in a voice that made them real.

"That isn't true," Snape said helplessly. He was aware that this was not part of the treatment, strictly speaking. The potion would work or not. Potter would heal or not, and then turn back into his older, saner self, to die or recover, and nothing he said or heard in-between would make a difference. This wasn't psychology, it was proper magic.

But he couldn't ignore those words. He couldn't ignore those eyes.

Potter's face was calm as he met his gaze. It wasn't the acceptance the man used to deal with pain, nor the serenity of Saint Potter. It was the peace of resignation, the quiescence of a man who returned to find his house burnt down with his family still in it, everything gone in a moment and nothing left to fight for.

"Who are you to tell me that?" he asked. He didn't sound as if he cared at all, neither about Snape nor about his own question, and even as the hurt of that sliced into Snape, he realized that Potter couldn't possibly care, that this monstrous hybrid of two Potters at their worst did not have the capacity for it. "What do _you_ know about me, _Professor_ Snape?"

Out of all the possibilities to answer that question, Snape chose one that involved him least. He wasn't sure whether it was cowardice, or whether he didn't trust the bond they'd formed over the past weeks. It seemed safer this way.

"The mere fact that people care enough about you to invade Hogwarts on your behalf should tell you that this isn't your life anymore," he therefore answered, trying for controlled and reasonable. "Think of Ayda, and Shadow and Chairon. They can protect themselves. What you are feeling right now isn't the truth. That loss is old. You have friends now, and things to live for."

Potter's face twisted in a smirk, such a cold and bitter expression that even Snape at his worst would have been hard-pressed to match it. Snape felt something twist within himself in response, and only the way Potter's hands were still clutching Granger's hair reminded him that this coldness wasn't real.

"Why, Professor, how very sentimental of you."

Snape had the supremely unpleasant experience of finding himself tongue-tied in front of this stranger with eyes the green of the Killing Curse. He wasn't sure how to react to this. He wasn't even sure what was happening to Potter, right in front of his eyes – he had never actually gone through the process of treating the illness, and all his knowledge was theoretical - only that there was nothing he could do but wait. It was painful to realize.

Potter nevertheless appeared to expect an answer. He even cocked his head sideways in a parody of expectation. Then, abruptly, he seemed to tire of this game. His eyes swept the room, then returned to the body in his arms. His lips tightened for a moment. His features were still surreally visible in the grey light of his illness, but even that illumination wasn't enough for Snape to follow the thoughts and expressions darting across his face.

Snape was reminded of the Potter he had seen in Ayda's memory, full of pain and volatile emotion, so overwhelmed by the momentum of his own feelings that he couldn't pull himself out of them. He found that he wanted to reach out and offer help, to soothe the breaking man in front of him.

"Only a few more minutes, Potter," he tried, but even as he said it, he was desperately aware how short his words fell of the situation and the man's need.

Potter chuckled tiredly. It was a sound of ruin and broken glass.

"This will never be over," he said. His hands reached out as if to clasp Granger's ears, to stop her from hearing. He sounded so very tired. "This is life, and I finally understand. After all those years of them lying to me, after all those tales and reasonings and prophecies I believed in, I can see it now. I see the truth. And it's so _ugly_."

He paused. His eyes closed.

But before Snape could react, before he could scrape together an answer that would hold back the flood of that pain, Potter was gone again, lost in his own realization. Perhaps he wouldn't have heard Snape, anyway.

"This is it. The truth about life. The thing they never ever tell you because most never understand it, and those that do, well they just hope for you that you'll never have to figure it out. It's not a philosophy they'd teach you at school, where you learn that when you're good and do your homework and follow the rules…"

For a moment, his fingers tightened in Granger's matted, blood clotted hair and his face twisted in grief.

Just for a moment. Then the feeling was gone again, nothing against the great void that rose and rose, swallowing his soul up whole.

„That when you play their game and say yes and please, that your life will be good, then. The nice children will get a prize, and grow up, and have more nice children, and everyone will be happy. They teach you that this is something you can _earn_, because there's a meaning to life, justice, order, and the good ones will win, and the bad ones will be punished."

He laughed, bitterly.

„But it's all a lie. There is no meaning. There is no justice. There's no future stretching out into a golden arc. There's only life, and life's a bloody mess of coincidences where everyone scrambles for the first place and no one looks back to the losers.

"Life's this: everyone I love killed and I survive. And there's no reason for it. Just an old man in his castle and a stupid boy that can't die. There's nothing else. And if you think there is, then you're just lying to yourself. Making up sacrifices because you can't bear that there's no one looking out for you, no one that gives a damn if you live or die. No God, no destiny, no prophecy. Just a joke gone wrong."

The words echoed with emptiness. The potion was doing its work, Snape was vaguely aware of that, but the healing it could bring was nothing against the destruction Potter was causing within himself, nothing against the flood within him, breaking all dams, destroying all reason.

„There's more than that, Potter," Snape said, not sure what he was doing, but knowing that he had to try. He couldn't bear just standing by, watching this.

Potter looked up at him. His face was hard and cold, cynical. Dead. But his eyes were pleading.

„Then tell me what," he whispered.

Three weeks ago, Snape couldn't have answered that plea. His life had never had a meaning of its own, a value beyond what he could achieve and of what use he'd been for others. He knew this, had known it for a long time, and he wasn't ashamed of it. He'd always thought it was that way because he could see clearer than other people, because he was strong enough not to bother with the illusions weak people clothed their desires in.

But since then, his world had changed. He had changed.

He'd seen so much. Potter had ripped away the illusions Snape thought he'd never had, but he'd given in return, had shown Snape a life so rich despite its hardships, so full despite its shortness. For the first time since Lily Potter had died, others had knocked on his door, offering more than redemption or services paid. For the first time in more years than he could count, people had demanded to be heard, to be acknowledged, to play a part in his life. And he'd opened his door to them.

Snape was aware that he couldn't find the answer to Potter's question on his own. But he wasn't on his own anymore. He was changed.

He'd let this new self do the talking, then.

"There's kindness," he said, in a voice so different from his usual one and at the same time so much Snape that he wondered why he'd never dared use it before. "There are poppy-seed muffins and cranky old women and vampires that read too much Dickens. There's courage. And regret. And perhaps there is no meaning to it all, but that doesn't stop us from _making_ it mean something every day."

Potter nodded, a tired, jerky gesture.

"We tell lies," he said. "Because we cannot bear the truth."

"No," Snape contradicted, decisively. He felt understanding rise within him, a clarity of thought that wasn't clinical distance, wasn't the cold disinterest of one that viewed life from a distance. It was a clarity of involvement, an understanding founded on the parts he'd played in Potter's life, good and bad, and for one moment he wondered if this had been Potter's aim in making Snape his healer all the time – to hand him this power, this knowledge, because it was the only thing that could save Potter now.

The pieces of the puzzle clicked together.

"No," he repeated. "Not lies. Stories. And maybe they twist and shape the facts, sometimes, but they _are_ truth. And they matter. They determine how we see the world, and they determine whether it is a world we want to live in."

He paused. Potter's eyes were still on him. He could see the hunger in them, the need, but he also saw that Potter didn't understand him. And how could he, when even Snape was only beginning to understand his own meaning?

That girl," he pointed to Granger's body in Potter's arms, "came in here as a victim. But she took the situation and made it her own, she turned herself into a fighter, and that made her free. That's not a lie, even though it is a version of the events, an interpretation. It's a truth that goes beyond facts, and it's what you did, too. You stopped subscribing to prophecies, to Dumbledore's twists and manipulations, to all those stories others told about you. You made your story your own, and you didn't care that we thought you were a coward or a fool or a full-time tourist. You freed yourself of that. You told your own story instead. And you can do it again."

Snape fell silent.

Potter was still staring at him, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, Snape was painfully aware of the way he stood above the other man, holding forth on the merits of stories, one hand raised to underline a point.

This was ridiculous. Who was he to lecture Potter on anything? What right did he have to preach to anyone, least of all this man?

But even as he questioned himself and his words, a change began in Potter.

The grey light faded from his skin, trickling back into his pores, and with the return to the room's shadowed twilight, Potter's features seemed to change, too. They strengthened. His bruises faded. His face matured.

But the hunger in his eyes was still there.

"I can't," he said, perhaps not noticing that the healing was taking effect, perhaps not caring. His need seemed less raw to Snape, the despair of the boy now mixed more evenly with the resignation of the man. But it was no less urgent for the coat of age it had acquired. "I tried for so long, I tried so hard, and for some time I could tell myself that I was content. And perhaps I was."

He smiled a sad, lopsided smile, amused perhaps by his own naivety.

"But after all I've been through, after all I've done, I've ended up here again. Perhaps I never left. Perhaps this is all my life boils down to. The cupboard, this moment, all those people who died, and me running as fast as I can to hide from them. Perhaps that's all there is."

Potter's voice was hoarse, half the seventeen-year-old's scratchy potential, half the tone of a grown man, sure of himself. His fingers were still entwined with Granger's hair, and the tears on his face were still the boy's, not the man's. But his eyes were aware again, and they were looking at Snape, truly looking at him. Not at the cruel teacher he'd been, nor at the dictatorial trainer, but at the Snape who had stayed at his house, and complained over his cooking, and bickered with his friends. At the Snape who had witnessed his memories.

And with a strange breathlessness, Snape realized that Potter still wanted an answer, and he wanted it from _him._

Fool that the man was. Trusting fool.

"It is not," he said, and he didn't let his own doubts invade his tone. Potter needed certainty now, not a Slytherin's careful manoeuvring. "I know that it is not because I _saw_ it. I witnessed what you have become. A man who is far too forgiving by choice, who enjoys bribing his friends with food, who works at a bookshop and spars with vampires, two of the most ludicrous hobbies I've ever heard of. A man who delights in driving his friends to distraction. A content man. One that doesn't have to prove anything to anyone."

Potter laughed, but it was half a sob, and his head sank down on his chest again, his eyes resting on Granger.

"Content," he whispered.

"Yes," Snape answered. "Content. Remember, Potter. _Remember_. This is real, and this pain is real, but that's not the only thing that is. You'll go on from this. You'll go beyond this. You have a home, and friends, and things to live for. You have worth, irritating as though you might be most of the time. You grow from this. This is not all that is to your story. _Remember_."

There was no blood on Potter's face anymore, and no grey light shone in his eyes. His clothes were the well made shirt and trouser of the man, and the only bruises his skin showed were the dark circles under his eyes, the shadows that painted his too-thin frame.

The healing had taken. The Fading was gone.

Potter would live.

"I remember," he said, and it was his own voice again. "It's just… in this moment… I'm not sure I can trust that memory."

"You can trust it," Snape confirmed. He hesitated, not sure what was needed right now, but thoroughly fed up with his own verbosity, if he was to be honest.

Brusqueness had always been more his cup of tea than cosy talks about one's feelings, and if he judged Potter's relationship to Ayda correctly, the other man might be the same. So he tried for a different tone.

"You are far too self righteous not to trust in your memories, Potter."

Again, Potter laughed. It almost sounded real now.

His eyes were still on Granger. His hands still in her hair. He sat very quietly.

Then, as if a signal had sounded, inaudible to anyone but him, he lifted the girl's body away from his lap, carefully set her down on the dark stone. His fingers untangled from her bloodied locks. He tenderly brushed them out of her slack face, reached out and closed her eyes.

For a while longer he sat, his hands now folded on his knees, and watched her reverently. Then he folded the blanket over her body, touched her hand one last time and slowly lowered himself on his elbows.

He kissed her forehead. The lines in his face smoothed out.

The man who looked up at Snape then was the Potter he'd come to know. He looked tired, and mournful, and there were many things in his eyes Snape couldn't interpret, but perhaps that wasn't necessary yet. He had survived, and that would suffice for now.

"You never lied to me," Potter remarked almost casually.

He gestured for the potions Snape had prepared for him – _Pepper-ups_, strengthening tonics and nutritional potions that would improve his state long enough for nature to do its work. Snape handed them to him mutely and watched Potter take the remedies against his weakness of his own, free will.

He felt exhausted all of a sudden, weary to his very bones. But he didn't show it.

"Why should I bother lying to you, Potter?" he asked, and it was a relief to settle back into the harsh edges of his usual persona. Even if he knew that Potter could see right through it. Or perhaps because of that. "You assume far too much importance. I only lie to very powerful wizards, after all."

Potter chuckled.

Already the potions were doing their work. It would be a long time until Potter regained his full strength, and perhaps the side effects of these weeks would last a lifetime.

But his survival was ensured. He would heal, and not just in the physical sense. It would take time.

But for now, it was enough for him to sit quietly besides the body of his friend, and for Snape to stand beside him, with the weight of this responsibility gone from his shoulders.

"I had forgotten this," Potter finally said, and the words encompassed this room, the sorrow of the past hour, perhaps even the future Potter had regained.

"There are many things I had forgotten, too," Snape admitted.

Looking around the throne room, he realized that he hadn't seen it as the place of his own pain and humiliation for quite some time now. His past was truly in the past, not just because he had chosen to shove it back into the dark corners of his mind, but because something about this experience had put it behind him. But there were also things he had learned during the last weeks, betrayals he'd never known about or had chosen not to recognize, loyalties that had been misplaced, old bitterness that had poisoned not only his life.

He shivered, almost overwhelmed with exhaustion for a moment, and drew his robes closer around his shoulders. "And quite a few I'd have preferred not to remember."

"Sometimes we need someone else to remind us of the things that truly matter," Potter said musingly. It was such an asinine, trite statement that Snape couldn't suppress a snort of disgust.

Only when he saw the amused glitter in Potter's eyes did he realize that Potter, weak, hurting, mourning Potter had parodied his own serenity, and he barked in surprised laughter, only to be rewarded with a broad smirk from the other man.

Then Potter tried to move his stiff limbs, and his face twisted in a pained grimace. He stretched out his legs slowly, massaging his knees. By his side, Granger's body thinned into mist, now that the memory had played out and was dissolving.

"It'll be good to get back to my life," Potter said, almost conversationally.

Snape snorted and aimed a muscle-relaxation spell at Potter's legs.

"You _are_ aware that we're going to return to a Hogwarts invaded by centaurs, druids and vampires, yes?" he inquired sardonically. "It will be bedlam, absolute bedlam, and nearly impossible to oust Ayda from her position of power. I don't even want to know what she has done with Dumbledore's office by now."

"We're going to return to a place where all my friends gathered to protect me, when I could not help myself," Potter corrected softly.

He got his legs under him. Then he looked up at Snape one more time.

"Thank you, Professor," he said quietly. "I could not have done this without you."

Snape sniffed disdainfully.

"It's not as if I did it willingly," he said, and ignored the knowing smile that played on Potter's lips. Why had he ever forgotten how irritating the man could be? "You fairly blackmailed me into this, and once your madcap group of friends was involved, I had no choice at all but to play along. Don't expect me to open my door to you every time you cut your dainty fingers while chopping vegetables now, Potter."

And Potter smiled.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Professor," he said. He tried to stand, but he was too weak yet and fell back on his knees with a huff of irritation.

For the third time since they had entered this memory, Snape offered his hand to Potter.

And this time, Potter reached out and took it.

* * *

A/N: This is the last chapter of the story proper, dearest readers, though an epilogue will follow in a week or two to wrap up the threads of our tale. Thank you all for reviewing and reading, for staying with me all this time. It meant a lot for me to finish this story, and it meant even more that you cared and continued to care. My best wishes to all of you!


	50. Epilogue

Epilogue

It was icy cold and snow was falling softly when a dark figure appeared with a pop in the middle of nowhere.

The man looked up into the starlit sky, then down to the banks of snow that were sneakily creeping towards his feet. Glad that he'd chosen sturdy boots and a warm cloak, the man shuddered once, then directed his steps towards the distance, where the silhouettes of a few warmly lit houses were shining the promise of shelter into the night.

"Damn it," he grumbled to himself. "Why do these things always happen to me?"

But he was all alone in the darkness, and the house where this – and many other complaints, as far as he was concerned – would be answered was still far off in the distance.

So through the snow he trudged, and a secret observer would have found him very quaint indeed, not just because of the litany of complaints that poured from his mouth into the icy darkness, but also for the nature of his words, which were strange and entirely unsuited to the inhabitants of this harmless place.

"…but does anyone listen to me?" He grumbled. "Merlin, of course they don't. I _told_ them this line of research wasn't viable, right from the beginning, but naturally those brainless idiots had to go and waste a pound of powdered unicorn hair. A _pound_! I can't believe I'm stuck with brains the size of flubberworms. I could have stayed at Hogwarts for all the difference it makes…"

Despite the irritated tone his voice held, there seemed to be freedom in the way he vented his grudges, even a dark kind of amusement, as if he was secretly laughing at his own complaints. They seemed less born from frustrations past and present, or from a burden too heavy to carry wordlessly, than from the conscious choice to confront the world with continuous, ill-tempered prickliness.

"Dragon's balls!" he cursed when his foot hit an unexpected pothole and went down into the cold, sluggish embrace of inches of snow. "Why couldn't the blasted man have chosen a civilised place for once?"

He seemed ready to turn his back on the whole enterprise for a moment. But with a deep, beleaguered sigh, he withdrew a wooden stick from his pocket instead, swished it in the direction of his wet foot, and trudged onward.

Then, finally, the black-mooded man reached what passed as the centre of civilization in this quiet part of the world, a few two-storied houses, hunkered down in the snow like grandmothers huddled into their wool-capes. Yellow street-lamps illuminated the old-fashioned signs that marked their trade – a bakery, a village shop, a pub, a tiny hole-in-the-wall selling newspapers and fishing gear, and a newer sign, situated over generous windows through which golden light painted patterns on the snow: Community Bookshop.

"_Merlin_," muttered the dark man in a tone of deepest, resigned disgust.

Then he drew his cloak closer around his shoulders, crossed the road and opened the door to said bookshop. He began to automatically clean his boots, realized what he was doing, gave another sound of disgust and stepped into the warm shop, his eyes lighting with satisfaction on the little piles of snow he left on the polished wooden floor.

Inside, it was warm and dry, but there was none of the humid and smelly air that usually constituted the atmosphere of shops on a cold and wet afternoon. In fact, even as he stepped further into the room, the dark-clad man could see the snow from his boots melt and the puddles disappear, leaving the floor as pristine and warmly golden as before. The man grunted again.

"Not even bothering with subtlety anymore," he complained quietly.

His quick eyes had mapped the interior and its inhabitants even before entering, but now he took his time acknowledging them. Instead, he let his gaze glide over the low ceiling, the shelves crammed with books to the bursting point, the boxes with paperbacks and piles of picture books, the simple table at the other end of the room that carried an old fashioned till. Only after all this had undergone a careful examination did he turn his attention to the man and the woman that filled the small shop with chatter.

They had looked up at his entrance and nodded a greeting, as one is wont to do in small village shops, but they were too engrossed in their own discussion to spare him more than that cursory politeness.

"But I'm sure he will like it, Mrs Walden," the young man, a shop assistant with dark, slightly untidy hair wearing a crumpled green cardigan, was saying. "These books are all over the place, everyone's reading them now. There's action in them, political commentary, even a good bit of philosophy. Jimmy will love them."

"But they are girl books," the old woman objected, though the way her fingers held the stack of three paperbacks betrayed her wish to buy them – and maybe read them herself. "Our Jimmy would never be seen with girl books. He'd think I've finally gone round the bend if I give him these."

"They're not _girl_ books," the young man disagreed, a hint of passion creeping into his voice. "They're about a girl, true, but they're also about integrity, and courage, and being forced into something you never wanted. They're good books."

He grinned.

"And there's a good deal of archery in them – Jimmy's newest obsession, if I've heard correctly?"

The old woman sighed.

"Robin Hood is his hero," she declared with a resignation that spoke of endless teenage rants about the Merry Men of Sherwood. "Alright then, if you're sure, dear. But if he hates them, it'll be you I'll hold accountable."

The shop assistant nodded, accepting this threat humbly, then turned towards the till to ring up her purchases.

"So," Mrs Walden, satisfied now her choice was made, reached for a box under the table and extracted a plastic bag for her books, then began to wrap them up carefully. "How are you spending the holidays, Harry? With family?"

The young man chuckled absently, his fingers carefully pressing the till's drawer, persuading the old machine to open.

"You could say that," he answered amusedly.

From his place near the entrance, the newcomer, who had remained silent until now, grunted. It was a sound that held many things, but most of all indignant protest.

The young man looked up from the till, and his face lit up in a smile that was young and bright and without the slightest reservation.

"Good to see you made it!" He greeted his second customer.

The dark man sneered.

"Have you got nothing better to do with your time than peddle young adult novels on a night like this, Potter?" He asked harshly.

Mrs Walden drew in a surprised breath, her hand clutching the bag with her purchase closer to her bosom. But the young shop assistant just half-turned towards her, encompassing her in his smile and somehow making her part of a joke she hadn't noticed.

"Mrs Walden, this is a good friend of mine, a former teacher. Professor, this is Mrs Walden, a retired primary school teacher. She heads the reading group over at the church."

The dark man opened his mouth, and the assistant's eyes somehow sharpened while the smile on his face stayed the same, and something passed between them.

"Charmed, I'm sure," the dark man said, and even Mrs Walden, who did not know him at all, had a vague feeling that this was a courtesy rather unsuited to him. But she in turn was courtesy personified, and so welcomed him to the village with words as warm as this bookshop was.

"A teacher," she then commented, perhaps a tad disbelieving. Her scepticism was understandable if one considered his dark, dramatic cloak, his obviously handmade boots and his forbidding face. "I would have pegged you for a colleague of Harry's."

"Colleague?" For a moment, the stranger seemed thrown, perhaps even suspicious.

Mrs Walden laughed.

"A writer," she explained. "Though dear Harry refuses to reveal his pseudonym, we all know that's what he does. Perhaps you'd be willing to betray his secret, Mr…"

"Mrs Walden!" The young man protested, as if scandalised by her daring, and her laughter turned into a delighted giggling that seemed to strip the years from her.

"Then I'll leave you to it, dear," she announced, the ritual of curiosity dispensed with. "It's good to know you're not alone on this of all nights, Harry. The Lord bless you!"

"And you, Mrs Walden," the shop assistant replied good naturedly. He watched her leave in silence, then turned to his other customer.

"Can I tempt you into buying anything, Professor?" He asked with the gentlest kind of mockery. "We have an excellent selection of cookery books."

The dark man's reaction to this apparent witticism was another of his trademark grunts.

"You could only tempt me with one of those if you promised to stand still while I clobbered you with it, Potter."

The young man's grin reappeared.

"What a waste of a good book," he mused, then closed the till with a snap. "I just need a few moments to tidy the shop, then we can be off. You won't mind waiting, Professor, will you?"

The Professor's face didn't hide what answer he would be giving, had he bothered speaking.

But as he watched the much younger man tend to his tasks - lock the doors, count the money in the till and safely depositing it in the backroom's safe, switch out the light so that the interiors of the shop would be all but invisible, then clean floor, shelves and desk with just one lazy flick of his magical fingers – something else played across his face, something he didn't seem to notice and probably would have denied fervently if asked about it.

Something like tired, soft exasperation, like worry and patience and understanding.

Something like tenderness. Something like pride.

None of these things fit his face very well, that sallow plane of harsh angles and jutting edges, and yet, somehow, they made him look free in a way he hadn't before, all the more himself for seeming so alien to him.

There was no evidence of this strange bundle of emotions when the young man finally joined him at the door, gestured that he would follow him into the cold, clear night, then locked the door behind them.

They walked side by side through the darkness, falling into step easily, as if this silent companionship came to them like breathing. Only when they had cleared the last houses and were entirely alone, snow beneath their feet and black sky above them, did the older man finally open their conversation.

"A writer?" he asked. The occupation sounded like a dangerous disease the way he pronounced it.

The other man chuckled.

"It's their latest theory," he explained. "Obviously I'm not posh enough to be a rich heir. There was a theory about retired SAS a while back, but I made sure that rumour wouldn't spread, and so it's writing now, probably fantasy, considering the weird things I carry around on myself sometimes."

Turning to the other man, he asked: "An how's _your_ new job?"

"A nightmare," he was answered succinctly. "They squabble like children, are unable to share their research productively, and expect me to continuously clean up after their messes."

The young man grinned.

"Sounds horrible."

"Yes. It really, really is."

"And who'd have thought that heading the Wizengamot's secret international potions research centre would be so much like teaching at Hogwarts," the younger man mused, only to have the other whirl around to him, brows clenched in a thunderous frown.

"Who told you that? Our work is secret for a reason, Potter!"

Potter shrugged. He looked embarrassed, but also very amused.

"I have my sources," he simply offered.

"Sure you have," the other fairly growled. "Should have known."

Then, he in turn chuckled, a rusty, sardonic sound.

"Minerva's going spare trying to find out what I'm doing with myself. Offered to double my salary and can't understand why I could afford to tell her where to shove it, that harpy."

"She'll be a good Headmistress."

The older man hesitated, then nodded grudgingly.

"She will. Has the right type of meddlesome self-righteousness for the job." He paused for a few deep breaths of winter air. "And you're back to working in a book shop, I see."

"Part-time," was the exceedingly vague answer. "The community bookshop is a fairly new project. They've been trying to open one for ages, and now that it's become possible, I thought I'd lend a hand."

"Now that an anonymous benefactor has made a substantial donation? Subtle, Potter."

Potter grinned.

"A deduction worthy of your sharp mind, Professor. Or did Shadow simply tell you over a glass of whisky?"

"Just because I happen to share a drink with your mother-hen-vampire once in a while," here, the old man lowered his voice, as if wary of sharp ears listening. "Doesn't mean that we limit our conversation to the tawdry subject of your misadventures. I happen to have a life far more interesting than that."

Any hint of mockery left the younger man's face, and his hand came to rest on the older man's shoulder, just for a moment.

"I know," he said quietly. "And I'm glad for it, Professor."

"You're insufferable, that's what you are," came the gruff answer. "And I'm not a professor anymore, so stop calling me that."

The complaint was perfunctory, as if even he himself didn't expect it to have any effect anymore, and the silence that answered him was expected.

"Speaking of interesting lives," he continued after a moment. "You haven't actually gone after the group that tried to kill you, have you?"

There was much in the question – and in the silence that followed it – that reached beyond this moment, beyond the black sky and the white snow under the feet, beyond the now of the two men.

Memories of Potter, standing alone in a meadow, armed with only a stick, and Snape locked inside, condemned to helpless watching. Memories of that same young man, barely recovered enough to stand without help, calmly and perhaps a bit sadly stating that 'they' – whoever 'they' were – had become a danger to others and would have to be dealt with.

There had been many strange and unexpected moments in those first days after the memories had run their course, those days Snape had taken to calling 'post-survival' in his head.

He should have known what would happen, after having spent weeks with Potter. Indeed he had foreseen pars of it: The way Potter had surfaced from his memories and from Snape's chambers to take back control over his life, as if he hadn't fought against being healed with everything he'd had, the calm, unerring, unwavering climb back to health. How he'd eaten sensibly, slept enough, undertaken light exercise according to Mme Pomfrey's regime, and had meanwhile talked to every single party that made up the chaos of Hogwarts' invasion, had talked again and again, enduring and ignoring the vampire's outrage over how he'd been treated, the teachers' constant questions about his past and health, Ayda's delight in causing mayhem.

He' brought them to one table, every single one of them, even Dumbledore, whom Snape couldn't even bear to look at, much less talk to, and somehow, he'd hammered out a solution to their problem that would leave Hogwarts whole, its reputation untarnished, and all their dignities intact.

Harry Potter, it had turned out, was one hell of a diplomat.

But that much had been obvious long before, from his successful interactions with both Shadow and Ayda, from his respectful immersion into centaur culture and also, if Snape was entirely honest, from the way he had with Snape himself. So no real surprises there.

What had been less expected was the sudden harshness he'd displayed in that one, short moment, the coldness of a man who'd dealt out death sentences with just a hint of regret. Only once before had Snape met a shadow of that man, back in the very beginning of their journey together, when Potter had spoken about killing Voldemort. He wasn't sure he wanted to meet him again.

But curiosity had always been the one thing capable of killing this very careful Slytherin, and so he asked again, despite the silence that had lengthened, indicating that Potter wasn't at all interested in answering.

"Have you?" It came out more worried than he had meant it to sound.

And Potter, gentle, serene Potter, turned his head towards Snape with a smile.

His face changed. Snape couldn't have explained how it was that his face turned cruel, his eyes darker and infinitely more knowing. There wasn't any physical change. But suddenly, Potter looked like the most dangerous man Snape had ever known, and it was obvious from the pockets of black amusement hiding in the shadows of that face that he knew it, and knew that Snape, in turn, knew.

"Oh no," Potter said lightly, his voice soft, as light as a snake's tongue tasting the night. "I just let them come to me. They were so very eager."

There was no apology in his words, no hint of regret, and for a moment, Snape's throat closed with fear. This was the man Potter might have turned into, the man with eyes the colour of the Killing Curse, the man who had clawed his enemies to death.

Had he been wrong? Had the treatment changed Potter in unexpected ways? Was something new hiding under that mask of a gentle and mild man?

Potter's smile widened, deepened as an abyss, sharpened like a knife. He knew Snape's thoughts, his smile whispered, knew them as well as if he had spoken the words. Had deliberately shown this side of him, inviting them in.

And then, just as deliberately, Potter wiped the smile away from the slate of his face.

"They made the same old mistake," he said calmly, "confusing my choices with helplessness."

Snape's breath misted the air in front of him. He felt strangely light headed.

"I see," he said, and he did.

His journey through Potter's memories had brought many things for Snape, directly and indirectly – conflicts with old colleagues, painful questions, unsatisfying answers, but also, he had admitted to himself during the past months of quiet reflection, more freedom than he'd ever had, from others, but also from his own past and constraints. He was, perhaps, more himself now than he'd ever been before, and he was too honest a man not to realize that this was down to the things he'd seen in Potter's company, the events he'd had a chance to witness.

But while it had been obvious that said journey had fulfilled its primary function for Potter, having healed him, he had never before seriously considered that Potter might have benefited in any other way.

Until now. Until he saw a man no longer afraid of his dark side, a man finally willing to allow his own power out. A man fully in control of himself, and free in that control.

"Thank you," Snape said. "That's good to hear."

Potter smiled gently.

"You deserved to know," he said quietly, and the moment fell away. "And you'll also be very satisfied to hear that I took your advice in other areas, too."

"What, have you gotten rid of that insufferable wreck you call your brain?"

Potter had the gall to chuckle. Was it impossible to insult the man?

"No, Professor. But I did re-initiate contact to a few former friends from the wizarding world. Luna's still very much herself, and Neville was delighted to hear of me."

"He'll learn," Snape grumbled, and Potter chuckled again.

"We're here, Professor," he then said, and as Snape followed the outstretched line of his arm, he saw warm light blazing out over the snow, the whitewashed walls and dark roof of a well-known cottage.

A cottage that had disappeared without a trace from the rocky ground of a Scottish island, giving him one last, mocking wink, only to reappear in the middle of Cornwall without so much as an as-you-please. It wasn't natural.

"Is this a joke, Potter?"

"No, Professor, this is my house." The answer was so bland, so entirely without humour, that Snape was sure his insufferable former student was holding his belly with laughter on the inside.

"You _transported_ your house?"

"I simply told it to make the move. Come on, let's get you reacquainted." Potter stepped closer to his home, and by invisible hands the front door opened invitingly. They stepped through.

Never in a thousand years would Snape have admitted that he was wary about a cottage, but he was. No wizard should be forced to put up with winking houses, that was his personal opinion, and if Potter disagreed, well, that was _his _problem. One of his many problems.

"No, Potter, I will not stretch out my hand again so that your _cottage_ can sniff at it like a mangy dog," Snape barked, only to have the front door snap closed right behind him, nipping at his heel. He heard the rafters above his head shift, like a dusty, dry snigger.

"This house has it in for me, I swear," Snape grumbled, watching the corridor with something like trepidation.

"Nonsense," Potter disagreed warmly. "It's just as glad to see you back here as I am. Afraid I can't speak for my other guest, though…"

Even warier, Snape followed him through the house, noting that Potter had enlarged the living room, putting up even more shelves for his muggle books. The air was warm and fragrant, and holly and ivy lined the walls, giving the place a festive glow.

Delicious smells hit his nose when he entered the kitchen, and Snape saw that although the table was enlarged, too, it still held barely enough space for the feast Potter had prepared. There were soup and roast and vegetables and puddings and muffins, and sitting right in the middle of that splendour, spoon and knife erect like the caricature of an impatient guest…

"I should have known," Snape said with a heartfelt sigh.

"Finally!" Ayda looked at him sternly, as if he was a recalcitrant boy that had returned home too late.

"I would have started without you," her old, cranky voice told him, holding nothing but petulance. "But Potter, the brat, put a spell on the food."

Snape examined her critically without saying a word, then turned back to Potter, one eyebrow raised and lips preparing a sneer.

"I'm only putting up with this under protest," he said. "And I think it's a rotten idea. Just so you know."

And Potter's smile widened, as brilliant and all-encompassing as the night sky, smoothing away all the lines of worry and illness and tiredly that made it look older than it was.

"I know, Professor," he said, his voice soft and teasing. "Merry Christmas to you, too."


End file.
